


come rest for the winter

by leaveanote



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-typical bathing, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Holidays, Huddling For Warmth, Husbands AU, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Married Life, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Romance, Sex, Toddler Ciri AU, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Winter, Winter At Kaer Morhen, Winter Ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: soft standalone winter ficlets, prompts fromwitcher-and-his-bard! pining and kisses and huddling for warmth. rating will vary from ficlet to ficlet! G/T except for chapters 5 and 11, which are explicit.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 411





	1. mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt's family talks him into a plan. 
> 
> Rated G, but there's cursing.

“For the last time,  _ no.”  _ Geralt huffs. “And for fuck’s sake, keep your voices down,” he adds, glancing worriedly between Eskel and Lambert’s shoulders. Jaskier will be at breakfast any moment. 

Lambert groans. Loudly. Geralt kicks him under the table. 

“Ow! I am  _ tired,  _ Geralt,” he whines, “I can’t keep listening to you bellyache like this! There is no better moment and honestly, he’ll love it—”

“He will  _ not,”  _ Geralt hisses, horribly aware of how pink his cheeks have gone even in the morning cold, “as we are not children, and only an  _ idiot  _ would—”

“He would love it and you know it,” Ciri says. Geralt jolts, nearly knocking over his mug as he spins to look at her, heart-stoppingly grateful she’s alone. Ciri snorts, scooping herself some food. “Jumpy, are you?”

“Didn’t hear you come in,” Geralt grunts. “Er. Morning.”

“Morning,” she grins, and ruffles his hair as she comes to sit next to him. He gives a small smile despite himself. It’s hard to feel as angry with her around. Or as undeserving of what his brothers are telling him, repeatedly and emphatically, he deserves.

“Anyway, I think it’s a great idea,” Ciri continues, shoveling into her food. 

Geralt groans.

“You told her about your stupid plot?”

“She doesn’t think it’s stupid!” Eskel points out.

Geralt looks around the table, outnumbered. His heart is beating human-fast. Could it be...maybe not a terrible idea?

In the hallway, the faint traces of morning music trickle through the keep. Jaskier always tunes his lute before breakfast. 

Geralt’s gotten so used to it, he can’t imagine going back to a winter without it.

He pauses.

Fuck.

“Fine,” he growls, “fine,  _ fine _ —but!” he cuts off Eskel’s hoot of approval, Ciri and Lambert’s delighted stomping. “If we are...fuck. If we are doing this. We are doing it  _ right.  _ Not just a damn sprig.” Geralt pokes at his breakfast, his face very hot. “He deserves the best.”

“He’s just broken into his scales,” Lambert says, listening. He leans in, and the others join suit. “We’ve got ten minutes, fifteen at most if he’s feeling particularly compose-y this morning. What d’you have in mind?” 

It doesn’t, after all, look half bad, Geralt thinks somewhat numbly.

Not for under a day’s work, at least. The main hall at the keep is as bedecked in festivity as three witchers could manage, scavenging as quick as they could in the neighboring forest and stealing (“borrowing!” Lambert insisted) choice herbs from their own potion stores. It’s mainly a good amount of winter cherry and basic fir, strewn from the rafters and along the table-lines, but it does a decent job of approximating traditional Lettenhove holiday decor. 

The candles, though, were Ciri’s idea, and they really bring it together. Geralt got a good fire roaring too, and he must admit the keep feels rather...festive. 

He’d likely appreciate it more if his heart didn’t feel about to leap out of his throat.

Ciri had, as planned, dragged Jaskier away on some silly time-consuming errand in the forest all day, something about gathering winter grasses for flower crowns. He’d only been happy enough to comply. As much as he likes watching the witchers train, which Geralt doesn’t understand (“you idiot,” Eskel had said affectionately, when he mentioned it), Jaskier gets along very well with Ciri. Something about seeing them together makes Geralt’s chest feel just like the roaring hearth.

He hears footsteps, his brothers greeting them in the entryway. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s really happening. 

Geralt feels very warm all of a sudden. Thank fuck Ciri had also thought of a bath. 

“...into the hall, go on,” he hears Eskel say. 

“Right now? Why can’t I get my coats off first—all right, all  _ right,  _ no need to shove, goodness, Ciri, we are the only ones with any propriety tonight, aren’t we?” 

But he’s smiling, Geralt can hear it in his voice. Utterly, genuinely clueless as to why he’s being buffeted along, but he’s smiling because despite all the odds, despite Geralt’s deep-seated terror to the contrary, he loves being here. In Kaer Morhen. Raising Ciri. And, with Geralt. He really, really does.

And it’s time Geralt shows him he loves it too.

“Hurry up, I want my hall back,” growls Vesemir, and Geralt’s eyes widen. Well, that wasn’t in the plan. And now  _ Vesemir  _ knows about this stupid, idiotic, awful idea to—

“Oh my goodness,” Jaskier breathes. He stands in the arch of the hall, his eyes sparkling as he takes in the sight, and everything else melts away. “Oh, my—oh,  _ oh!”  _ He drops his snow-soaked fir and rushes to the fireplace, breathes in the scent of the freshly chopped pine logs. He scrambles to the tables, buries his face in the flowers and the winter cherries, beaming like the damned sun. “Melitele, what  _ is  _ all this?” He glances around, taking in the candles, the extent of the decor—and Geralt, beneath the rafters. “Geralt?”

“D’you like it?” Geralt asks, stupidly. His voice is very raspy. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Of  _ course,”  _ Jaskier says at once, “it’s like a wonderland!” He takes a step toward Geralt, his brow furrowing slightly, figuring it out. “Did  _ you  _ do all this? I thought you didn’t give a shit about any of this!”

“I don’t,” Geralt says, “but you do.” 

Jaskier’s expression shifts. He takes another step, and opens his mouth.

“We helped!” Lambert chimes in from the arch, unhelpfully. “Go on, then! Look up, bard!” he calls, and then Ciri’s dragging the witchers away so they don’t stay and watch, and it’s just the two of them. Never before has Geralt felt Jaskier is so  _ much _ like the sun, a pinpoint of heat and life and warmth that blazes so bright Geralt can hardly look right at him, his cheeks burning as he does, but at the same time he can’t seem to look away.

“Look u—oh.” Jaskier looks up.

And he sees the mistletoe, tied cheerily to the rafters.

And Geralt...panics.

“Oh. This was really stupid, wasn’t it?” he says in a rush. “It’s—look, Ciri likes the decorations too, it’s not—I mean, you’re certainly under no obligation— _ mmph.” _

And then he can’t say anything else, because Jaskier has flung himself at his mouth.

“Oh,” Geralt murmurs, and kisses him back.

“Next time you want a kiss,” Jaskier says, when he pulls back, either a half-second or an hour later, Geralt isn’t sure, “just ask.” He presses a chaste one on Geralt’s lips. “And then I can help with the decorations, too.”

“Okay.” Geralt would probably agree to about anything right now. Jaskier is  _ powerful.  _ “Wait. Do we have to decorate the keep every time I want to kiss you?”

Jaskier laughs, and his eyes glitter in the firelight. His arms go round Geralt’s waist, pulling him as close as they get. 

“Definitely not,” he says softly. He’s beautiful, Geralt thinks, and he realizes he can say it aloud now, so he does. And then he realizes there’s something else he can say aloud at last, and he says that too, and Jaskier smiles so bright his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“I love you too.”


	2. huddling for warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier doesn't like letting Geralt know when the nights get too cold for him. Geralt finds out why.
> 
> Rated T.

It’s the kind of nighttime cold that singes, like the press of air itself is an encroaching icestorm on one’s skin.

Yeah, that’s right, Jask. Just keep thinking of pretty poetry about it, that’ll keep you from freezing your fucking bollocks off.

Fuck. Jaskier curls into as tight a ball as he can under his blanket, tugging his bedroll up around him by his teeth. The fire’s long since gone out, but even the lingering warmth of embers is a respite as the wind ghosts it over his shivering body. 

The thing is, it’s bad enough to be cold. It’s another thing to try and  _ hide  _ how fucking cold it is, but he has to, he  _ has  _ to. 

He should be used to it by now. 

He does it every year.

Because once it’s too cold for him to sleep comfortably on the Path, it’s only a matter of days before Geralt sends him on his way to warmer climes, and tucks himself into Kaer Morhen for the long stretch of winter, and each year it gets harder and harder and impossibly harder to watch him go. 

The wind howls like a banshee and Jaskier cringes, his ears aching with cold. Come on, come  _ on.  _ If only sleep would overtake him, then he wouldn’t have to cope with this—as long as he doesn’t wake up entirely frostbitten.

“Get over here.” 

Jaskier flinches. Impossible. Never, in  _ years _ , has Geralt ever—perhaps he imagined it, dying men hallucinate in the desert, don’t they? Perhaps his frigid mind and his wretched heart have teamed up to torment him—

“Hurry up, bard,” Geralt growls, and all right, well, Jaskier’s subconscious is a  _ bit _ self-deprecating but it probably wouldn’t have imagined quite so much irritation in Geralt’s voice. This is real, then.

He darts a look over his shoulder. In the light of the full moon, he sees that Geralt’s on his bedroll, and he’s raising his blanket in invitation.

Wariness floods Jaskier’s gut. It seems like a crueller fate than had this been a hallucination, to get so close to Geralt and have to just fucking somehow not kiss him, not hold him, not have him—

Geralt sighs.

“I know I’m not your preferred bedmate, Jaskier, but you can kiss your balls goodbye if you don’t get warm, and I don’t want to deal with you complaining about it. Come on.” 

Jaskier’s mind somewhat blanks out at  _ bedmate,  _ not least because Geralt could not be more wrong about his preferences, and then blanks out again at  _ kiss your balls. _

The wind surges and Jaskier gives an actual yelp of pain as it whistles over his cheeks.

Fuck it. He’s no stranger to being close to Geralt and struck weak with wanting, and he’d really rather not lose an ear just because he’s desperately in love with his stupid, maddening arsehole of a best friend.

He grabs his bedroll and blanket and scrambles over so quick he crashes into Geralt’s chest. 

“Oof.”

“S-sorry!” Jaskier tries to arrange his bedroll next to Geralt’s, but his fingers are nearly numb.

Geralt frowns and takes it from him, laying it out properly.

“Your teeth are chattering.” 

Jaskier actually wishes he  _ could  _ blush, it would warm him, but as is he just shoots Geralt a look. 

“Oh, th-th-thank you, I hadn’t n-noticed!” 

Geralt sits up and puts his hands on Jaskier’s cheeks. They feel like  _ fire,  _ it’s almost too much, and Jaskier lets out a whimper. 

“It’s worse than I thought.” He starts rubbing Jaskier’s cheeks, his ears, his nose, and it burns but it feels so good Jaskier could nearly sob, the blood rushing back to his frozen surfaces. Instinctively, Jaskier puts his numb palms against the hot column of Geralt’s throat and sighs with relief. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Because life is unfair, Jaskier’s warm enough to blush  _ now,  _ but mercifully Geralt doesn’t seem to notice, continuing his slow, rhythmic petting of Jaskier’s face. That doesn’t save Jaskier from needing to come up with an answer that’s not  _ I don’t want you to leave me for the winter, _ and his admittedly uncharacteristic silence just serves to concern Geralt more. 

“Nothing else for it,” Geralt grunts, and starts to remove his own shirt.

“W-what’s happening?” Jaskier’s voice isn’t stammering from the cold anymore, but it does go very high, and he squeaks when Geralt goes for  _ his  _ shirt.  _ “What’s  _ happening?”

“You need the body heat,” Geralt says, and he actually doesn’t sound annoyed anymore. Maybe a little sad, which is odd—well, probably just disappointment at Jaskier’s fragility losing him sleep. “Put your hands on my chest, and come here.”

And that’s how Jaskier finds himself enveloped in Geralt’s arms, wrapped in both of their blankets and pressed skin-to-skin into the bare muscle of his hot chest. 

It’s…

Fuck, it’s  _ wonderful. _

It’s not too clammy with the wind going, and Geralt holds him tight but loose enough that he can fidget if he needs to, he can adjust himself and Geralt doesn’t let go, just lets him rearrange his hips or his arms and curl in closer, and then closes his heavy arms around him. Every so often, Geralt shifts to warm whatever part of Jaskier he seems to think needs it, palming the small of his back, the nape of his neck. He smells like sweat and Roach and filth and  _ him,  _ and Jaskier breathes deep, trying to memorize it. He can hear Geralt’s heart, twice as slow as a human’s, beating a steady cadence in his ear, and fuck, Jaskier wants to compose the rest of his life in harmony with that rhythm.

Warm at last, sleep starts to find him, but now Jaskier doesn’t want it. He wants to stay just like this, cradled in Geralt’s arms. He needs nothing else, he knows that now, and he fights his own tired body to stay awake, to memorize this, to soak in as much of it as he can.

“Hmm,” Geralt murmurs, cupping Jaskier’s nape in one palm and his elbow in the other, a cold spot he’d missed. “Winter’s settling in. You’d better get somewhere warmer, soon. I’d best head to Kaer Morhen for the season.”

_ No. _

“All right,” Jaskier says, with as much false cheer in his voice as he can muster.

The hand on his nape stops.

Geralt leans back, and the cold wind crashes into Jaskier’s cheeks again.

“What?” Geralt frowns, peering at him.

“Nothing!”

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” and he sounds annoyed again. The hand on Jaskier’s nape tightens.

“Nothing, what, I’m just cold is all—”

“You’re lying,” Geralt says, sounding rather astonished by it. He rubs a thick thumb over Jaskier’s throat. “I can feel your pulse race.”

Jaskier blinks at him, his tired mind digging through his options, and then gives up into a groan.

“That’s not fair, you shouldn’t get to know that. Shouldn’t get to use witcher senses on me just because I’m cold.”

“Jaskier.”

“I hate when you leave,” Jaskier says at once, and then it’s too late to take it back. The corners of his eyes feel very, very hot. What would happen if Geralt just...walks away? If he says what he’s thinking, and Geralt leaves him here to freeze? He wouldn’t, would he? Jaskier’s not sure anymore, not after the mountain, but Geralt’s glaring at him, and the only way out is onward, so. “All right? I can’t—I can’t stand it. I miss you,  _ so much,  _ every winter, and every spring I’m not sure you’ll find me again, and sometimes you don’t and I just—I hate it, all right? So, I don’t like letting on that I’m cold,  _ yeah,  _ because then you’ll leave and I’ll miss you, and it’s not  _ fair—” _

“You’ve been freezing your arse off...to put off me leaving for the winter?” Geralt interrupts him. His brow furrows. “But  _ why—” _

Jaskier huffs a laugh as best as he can. His face is very cold, save for the heat threatening in his eyes. Geralt’s still holding him around the back of his neck.

“Don’t do that,” Jaskier murmurs. “You must know, you can’t  _ not  _ know.”

A moment passes, and then Geralt’s face shifts into something unreadable.

“Oh,” he says, his voice very strange, and Jaskier feels like he might be sick.

“Look, just—forget it, all right?  _ Forget it.”  _ Jaskier wants more than anything to bury his freezing face in Geralt’s chest, but that’s also the  _ last  _ thing he wants to do when Geralt’s looking at him like that, so he just shakes his head. “Let’s just go to sleep. And you’ll leave in the morning, and I won’t want you to, and that’s—that’s just how it’ll be.”

“I’m not good enough for you,” Geralt says, so softly Jaskier thinks he might have imagined it, but he hadn’t before and he isn’t now, and it’s such a preposterous thing to hear that he actually gives an incredulous, bark of a laugh out loud.

“I could say the damned _same_ about me, couldn’t I? You’ve certainly made it clear enough that you think I’ve no right to follow you around, but I do anyway because I want to, and honestly, if I didn’t think you were good enough for me I would have stopped _several_ years ago, so kindly let me be the judge of whether you are or are not—oh!” 

Maybe it’s because his mouth is chapped and half-frozen, or maybe it’s because he’s wanted it so desperately inside himself he’s long-since stopped imagining that it could ever actually happen to him, but it takes Jaskier several moments to realize he is genuinely, well and truly, being kissed.

Long enough that Geralt pulls away.

“Didn’t think it had anything to do with me,” he says gruffly. “How could it? I’m just—I thought you wanted witcher stories, for your songs,” he says, and his eyes are shining in the moonlight, and Jaskier feels a thaw in him that goes far, far deeper than body.

“Oh,” he breathes, his chapped lips breaking into a smile. “We are both absolute fucking idiots, aren’t we?”

Geralt grins, a real one, fond and warm and not entirely unfamiliar, and Jaskier kisses him square in the middle of it.

It’s ages before they break apart next, but when they do, Geralt cups Jaskier’s cheek in his palm.

“Come with me,” he says, and even though he knows it gets quite frozen up in Kaer Morhen, Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll ever be truly cold again in his life.


	3. cuddling by the fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt joins Jaskier by the fireplace, after a bath. And overhears Jaskier writing a song.
> 
> Rated T.

It’s late in the year, the days still warm enough to swelter, but enough of a chill comes in with the night that Jaskier doesn’t want to curl up in their room at the inn alone. Geralt’s having a bath, taking a good long while with it too, but Jaskier doesn’t mind that. Better than sharing a bed with a witcher stinking of guts and swamp-mud, though he...doesn’t really mind that much anymore, either. 

It does mean, though, that he’s perched in the center of a big, squishy armchair in front of the only fireplace he has access to, in the common area of the inn. The hearth crackles cheerfully, Jaskier’s got the blanket from their bed tucked around him, and he’s scribbling in his notebook in the firelight. He leans back presently, tongue prodding between his lips in concentration, to examine what he’s got.

_ “The heavy heat of summer slips slowly into night _ ,” he murmurs. It’s too late to worry in the evening with his lute, but he hums the working lyrics to the tune he’s been working on.

“ _ and if you’d like to part with me, my dear, you’d be quite right _

_ But a part of me is aching, to keep the dawn at bay _

_ and if you’d let me, lover, I’d like to have you...stay.” _

His voice breaks on the last line. Jaskier sighs, resigned, and stares into the fire. 

“Pretty,” comes a low, familiar voice behind him, and Jaskier nearly jumps out of the seat.

“Geralt!” How long had he been there? Not—not that it matters, really. Geralt never notices when the songs are about him unless Jaskier calls him out by name, and even then only sometimes. Jaskier twists from within his blanket, and has to stop himself from letting his jaw drop.

Yes, he’s quite used to seeing Geralt in various states of undress, life along the Path necessitates that sort of thing, and he’s bathed the witcher clean of monster guts enough. But it’s a bit of another thing to see every contour of his muscles gleaming in the firelight, his pale damp skin aglow in gold. He’s holding a thin drying cloth draped around his waist, where it’s barely long enough to meet at his hip, and he’s wringing out his hair. 

He looks like a storybook hero, like a  _ god,  _ and he’s good enough to be one. The fact that he still doesn’t seem to see it only deepens Jaskier’s desire to sing about it enough that at least the rest of the world will.

“Wondered where you went. You took the blanket.” Geralt hums. He tilts his chin at the fire. “That feels nice.” 

“Ah—yes, well, it was freezing in bed.”  _ Without you,  _ Jaskier doesn’t say, because they don’t ever talk about how every time the nights cool down, Geralt slings his arms over Jaskier and lets his witcher warmth keep him comfortable and safe until morning. Morning, when he rolls away and is generally just as cross and distant as ever. “You must be cold,” Jaskier points out, eyeing Geralt’s bare body.

“Mm,” Geralt grunts, half-heartedly. “Bath was hot. Starting to, though.” He moves, and then Jaskier is very confused, because while they’re certainly accustomed to undressing around each other, there’s hardly enough room for two people of  _ average  _ size on this armchair, and Geralt’s wearing half a rag.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asks warily, hurriedly tucking his notebook away.

“Getting warm,” Geralt says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and despite Jaskier’s sputters of protest, he seats his damp, near-naked, enormous self in the armchair. 

This means that Jaskier is squished into the corner of it, and he’s not actually much less broad across than Geralt, so he’s forced to wriggle, manuevering to try and find a position that neither crushes his spine nor (Melitele forgive, fuck’s sake) tugs at Geralt’s cloth. 

Geralt only lets this go on for a moment, watching out of the corner of his eye with an amused half-smile.

Then, he sighs. Plucks the blanket off Jaskier’s shoulders, ignoring his protests, and scoops him directly into Geralt’s lap.

“Er,” Jaskier says, any lingering objections dying on his lips. Geralt calmly settles into the armchair and wraps the blanket snugly around them both. Jaskier ends up cradled in his arms, his arse in Geralt’s lap, his feet tucked into the chair next to Geralt’s warm, bare thigh, his head pillowed on Geralt’s sturdy bicep. It is  _ very  _ cozy.

“Problem, bard?” Geralt asks, looking down at him with a smirk.

“Well...no,” Jaskier admits. 

Geralt gives a rumble of a laugh that Jaskier  _ feels,  _ pressed so close. They stay like that for a good, warm while, not talking, just being with each other, easy and drowsy in the golden light of the hearth. Presently, Jaskier leans into Geralt’s chest, which normally he’d never think to do, but if Geralt’s comfortable with  _ this,  _ then—

He seems to have the right end of things for once, because Geralt squeezes him closer. And then he buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair and breathes deep, and Jaskier wonders if maybe he’s dreaming after all. Except—

“You need a bath yourself,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier groans. 

“It’s not  _ my  _ fault you didn’t feel like sharing today, honestly, we didn’t have the  _ coin  _ for two, but if my scent was really so offensive, you could have asked me to join.”

It wouldn’t be the first time they’d bathed together, of course, but Geralt’s grip tightens, and Jaskier’s heartbeat scurries in his chest.

“Yeah. I should’ve.” 

Jaskier registers, vaguely, that Geralt’s mouth is still pressed to his temple.

“Jask,” Geralt says, his voice strangely soft.

“Hm?”

“The song you were writing.” 

Jaskier’s spine turns to ice.

“...yes?”

“Who would ever like to part with you?”

Jaskier snorts, his heartbeat returning to normal, though a bit bruised.

“Lots of people,” he huffs, as nonchalant as can be. He nudges his nose into Geralt’s shoulder. He should leave it there, he really should, but Geralt’s holding him, and the fire is warm and so is his voice. Geralt’s not wearing his armor, and suddenly Jaskier’s the one who feels undressed, undone, bare before Geralt and he’d come so close, and it feels so  _ good  _ here, and now he can’t stop. “Don’t be an arse. You do, for one thing. All the time.” 

“That’s true,” Geralt says, and then he pauses. “Oh.” He looks down at Jaskier, frowning. “Oh,” he says again, in that same soft voice, and before Jaskier can think of an explanation or an excuse, before he even gets a real chance to get nervous again, Geralt tilts his arm and slides Jaskier closer, and somehow, it’s the easiest thing in the world after all, to close the distance between them.

Jaskier had pictured hunger, when he let himself picture it. Which was as rarely as he could bear it, the sting of impossibility souring the wanting. When he did, though, he thought he’d be  _ taken.  _ He imagined Geralt furious, frustrated, dominating, and there was satisfaction in that, in the release of long pent-up desire sharpened into something vicious. Because he  _ is  _ hungry, that’s undeniably true.

But never once had Jaskier imagined that sating could come like this.

Geralt kisses him, and it’s tender _.  _ One hand coming to cup Jaskier’s head, to keep him steady, the other gentling across his cheek. He kisses deeply but moves careful and attentive all the while. Letting Jaskier set the pace, but letting him know just how badly Geralt wants this. Wants  _ him. _

They had starved for each other, and this is nourishment, at last. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, when at last he comes up for air. “Oh, oh,  _ Geralt.  _ Oh—dear, er. The fire’s nearly gone out.”

Geralt follows his gaze, then settles into an easy grin. He gives a jerk of his head. 

“That it has. Would you like to return to our room and keep me warm?”

_ “Yes.” _

They clamber to their feet, Geralt adjusting his cloth as Jaskier grabs his notebook and the blanket. Once they reach their room, Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders, and does the last thing Jaskier ever expected him to do.

_ “And if you’d let me, lover,”  _ Geralt croons into his ear, low and perfectly in key, _ “I’d like to have you...stay.” _


	4. travelling home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> home is a person, and Geralt misses his all winter.
> 
> thankfully, Ciri has the presence of mind to write to that person.

Geralt has begun to look forward to the thaw.

He genuinely loves being back in Kaer Morhen, away from the cruel eyes of townsfolk and within the comfort of his brothers. But the townsfolks’ vitriol has steadily melted like snow over the years, and each winter Geralt craves a different kind of comfort more and more. The kind of comfort that comes from the very reason the townsfolk are gentler to him and his brothers, now.

He leans against the stone of the keep, watches Ciri spar in her furs with Lambert and Vesemir on the training ground below. She doesn’t often train without him there to guide her, but she’d told him she wanted some space, some experience with the others without him there to catch her, and he begrudgingly agreed.  _ Go on,  _ she’d nudged him, grinning,  _ have a bath, I’ll be fine. Take a moment for yourself for a change. _

But Geralt doesn’t want a moment for himself, because then he’ll think about what he wants. What he can’t have.

It had been Ciri, in the end, that got him to find Jaskier several years ago and apologize, after his cruelty on the mountain. She learned him quick enough to know he was moping, and she got the truth out with ease.

Well. Most of the truth.

And Jaskier had taken it well, probably better than he should have. They’d fallen into step fairly comfortably after that, not much different except that Ciri joined them half the time, when she wasn’t with Yen.

But every year, just as before, they’d part for the winter. And even though he’d always thought of Kaer Morhen as more of his home than anything else, Geralt has started to long for the thaw.

He sighs. Groans. Curls his lip, and shakes off the snow that’s accumulated on his shoulders. It’s still several weeks at least before it’s really going to be warm enough to head back on the Path, to run into Jaskier. Ciri’s right, he might as well have that bath.

He’s almost back to his room when he senses something’s off.

Someone’s in his room.

Not just anyone.

It can’t be, it  _ can’t  _ be, there’s no way, it must just be because he was thinking about him (he’s always thinking about him), but Geralt knows that unmistakable scent, that sweet spice and soap and—and lute-wood—

Geralt rushes to his room, in a hurry to be wrong so he can shorten the span of his hope and quicken the disappointment, and he flings the door open, and there’s Jaskier, shivering in the center of it, hair gleaming with ice, his lute and a bag at his feet, and a hesitant smile between his pink cheeks.

“What are you  _ doing  _ here?” Geralt demands, but before Jaskier can answer, before Geralt even knows what he’s doing, he’s crossed the room, yanking Jaskier’s frozen coats from him and whipping the fur from his own shoulders to replace it. “I’ll get a fire going.”

“Wait,” Jaskier says, and the sound of his voice pools like cocoa in Geralt’s gut. Fuck. He’d missed that voice. “Can I just...look at you for a moment?”

Geralt stops in his tracks. Jaskier smiles at him, tugging the fur tighter around himself. 

“Thanks,” Jaskier says softly. He licks his lip. He’s...nervous, Geralt realizes, and isn’t entirely sure why.  _ He’s _ the one that showed up unexpectedly. Geralt’s the one being blindsided.

Jaskier gazes at him, those shock-blue eyes bright and searching. Geralt shifts his weight.

“You’re going to freeze if I don’t get a fire going.”

“I—all right.” Jaskier says, somewhat deflated.

Geralt rearranges his fur around Jaskier’s shoulders, vaguely registering Jaskier relaxing, shifting into his touch. He clears his throat, and moves to the hearth and gets the fire going.

“Ah, brilliant,” Jaskier says, shuffling closer. He stands before it and sticks his hands out of the fur to warm them. Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Come here,” he growls, and tugs Jaskier down onto the rug with him. Jaskier gives a little  _ oh!  _ but it’s not a bad sort of sound, so Geralt settles the bard between his legs and starts to rub him for warmth. Presses his witcher-hot palms to Jaskier’s icy cheeks, his brow, the hollows of his throat. Jaskier leans into the touch, resting his own palms on Geralt’s knees. He winces a little as Geralt warms his frozen ears, but Geralt doesn’t miss the smile that plays on his pretty mouth, the way his scent softens into something comfortable. Doesn’t miss the tug in his own gut either. Jaskier shifts, lets Geralt get his hands beneath his thin shirt to warm his hips, his shoulders. 

“What are you doing here, Jask?” Geralt mutters. Jaskier furrows his brows.

“What else would I be doing here?”

“I...don’t know.” Geralt’s done as much as he can do in terms of the warming, really, the fire and the fur will do the rest. His hands are still on Jaskier’s waist. He doesn’t move them, and Jaskier doesn’t move away.

“I missed you,” Jaskier says, as if it’s that simple. Geralt snorts.

“Enough to trudge up a mountain, in the snow, to come to this moldering old castle?” 

The snowmelt from Jaskier’s trousers is puddling on the rug beneath them, but neither of them pay it any attention. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says. His thumbs are tracing little circles where they rest on Geralt’s knees. “And if you must know, Ciri wrote me and told me to come.”

“Oh.” Something twists inside Geralt. Of course. He lets his hands fall away. “That was nice of you. To come for her.”

But Jaskier’s shaking his head before Geralt gets the words out.

“She told me—” he flashes Geralt a strange look. It’s not entirely unfamiliar, it’s...it’s the look Jaskier gets when he wants something. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Never  _ mind,  _ it’s nothing, I—look, if you don’t want me here, I do understand, I know it’s a big ask, I know you’ve never invited me—I wouldn’t have  _ come  _ if she hadn’t—” Jaskier pulls his palms away from Geralt’s knees, and they feel very cold in his absence. He starts to wring his hands, but Geralt takes them instead, almost by instinct.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. His voice sounds very controlled, considering how his heart is thundering in his chest so loud he’s almost surprised Jaskier can’t hear it. “What did she say? Why are you here?”

Jaskier hesitates. He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them, they’re defiant. He juts out his chin.

“She told me you missed me too,” Jaskier says in a rush. “Was she wrong?”

And it’s the fear in Jaskier’s eyes that does it, that actually gets through the years and the layers of Geralt’s self-loathing, because he never could have believed that Jaskier would actually want to be here for him, to be here with him, to want him, but Geralt recognizes the fierce and tender longing behind that fear in a blurry, lightning-strike of an instant, because it’s the exact mirror of his own.

“Oh,” he says, rather stupidly. “Oh, no. No, no. Oh, fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt says, his voice hoarse and low. Jaskier’s hands are still in his. He brings one to his mouth and presses a soft kiss there, just over a scattering of freckles. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, the fear in his voice threaded with disbelief now, and hope.

“No,” Geralt murmurs, and he registers dimly that he’s smiling. “She wasn’t wrong.”

And then Jaskier’s arms go around his shoulders and Jaskier’s mouth is on his, and Jaskier’s smiling too, and Geralt seizes him and holds him the way he’s been fucking aching to, and it feels like his arms were made for just this, only this.

“Ah—” Jaskier says, presently. He’s in Geralt’s lap now, where he fits very comfortably. Geralt’s hands have made a mess of his hair. He brushes it out of Jaskier’s eyes, careful and soft. “I suppose I didn’t clarify before, er, pouncing, but you seemed fairly amenable to the pounce so I figured it wasn’t unwanted, but just to be  _ clear,  _ to be entirely  _ certain,  _ did you miss me like a  _ friend, _ or?”

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt says, grinning. He can’t help but let Jaskier spend one moment very confused and crestfallen before he cups his head and dips him into another kiss. “I love you, Jask,” he says, and grins even harder as he watches Jaskier’s expression brighten, feels his entire body sag with relief in Geralt’s arms. “I missed you like a lover, because I love you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, beaming, “ _ good.  _ Because I love you too, but I take it you’ve—er—gathered.”

Geralt chuckles, and pulls him into an embrace. 

“Gods, I missed you. I always do.” He nuzzles into Jaskier’s hair. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Good, because I won’t leave then,” Jaskier says, “I hope you know you won’t be rid of me now, I’m going to stick around always, every winter—”

“Perfect,” Geralt murmurs, and kisses him.

That’s how Ciri and Lambert find them, a few minutes later, rosy-cheeked and tangled up in each other in front of the hearth.

“About time! Thank the fucking gods you wrote to him,” Lambert groans, clapping a very smug-looking Ciri on the shoulder. “I couldn’t deal with any more of Geralt’s  _ moping.” _

Ciri beams, looking very pleased with herself. Geralt will need to figure out a way to thank her later. Maybe let her train with some of his own swords...no, that’s shit, but it’s very hard to think clearly about it with Jaskier leaning on his shoulder. He’ll ask Jaskier later, he’ll think of something good.

“Eskel’s setting up a room for you,” she tells Jaskier.

“Not that he’ll need it,” Lambert teases.

“Shut up,” Geralt grunts, horrified to find himself  _ blushing,  _ but then Jaskier laughs and squeezes his waist, and it doesn’t seem so embarrassing anymore.

“Thank you, that’s very sweet,” he says warmly, though the way he’s holding Geralt makes him think the room may not get very much use. He does want Jaskier to have his own space here, though. He wants him to feel as welcome and comfortable as possible.

Also, it would be nice if he had a spot to practice his damn scales that was nearby but not, in fact, right next to the bed.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re very gracious,” Lambert says. “Now budge up, that’s a good fire and it’s freezing.”

Geralt growls, but Lambert sits heavily down next to them anyway, and Ciri laughs and settles on their other side. They start to chat with Jaskier about his journey, and he’s only too eager to provide what sounds like an incredibly embellished description. Geralt leans back on his hands and watches, a small smile settled on his face. 

They’ll make dinner soon, and then get drunk with his brothers and Ciri and Vesemir in the evening hall, and Jaskier will be there all the while, his hand warm in Geralt’s. He’ll tug him close after dinner, call Geralt  _ lover  _ himself, and it’ll sound different on his voice, something sweet and half-sacred, and then Geralt will make good on that name. And Jaskier will be there in the morning too, every night and every morning, for every day onward. 

And for the first time all winter—no.

For the first time, ever. 

Geralt, at last, is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're enjoying! 
> 
> there's more fluff to come, but heads up - rating's going up with the next one <3


	5. nighttime snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on a snowy night in Kaer Morhen, Jaskier can't get back to sleep.
> 
> Geralt gets him good and tired.
> 
> Rated E.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very soft filth!

It’s still so new, this sweet, soft relief of a romance, and sometimes Jaskier can’t quite believe it. It’s his second winter at Kaer Morhen, his second winter with Geralt as more than his bard, but after so  _ many _ years of wanting, it still feels surreal, sometimes.

The night has long since fallen. It’s been hours since they’ve tumbled into bed rather tipsily, and when Jaskier wakes needing the chamber pot and some sips of water, he finds the keep very still beneath a thickening blanket of falling snow. Once he’s tended to his needs, he tries to sleep again, but finds it evading him. He leans against the window instead, watching the fat flakes fall, one of the many quilts from Geralt’s bed wrapped around him. 

The snow is heavy but quiet as it comes down. Jaskier takes in the scope and beauty of it, its silent power as it fills the mountain range. He breathes in its earthy freshness, lets its brisk chill brighten his cheeks. It feels good, when he knows he has a warm bed to return to. 

Presently, there’s stirring from said bed.

“Jask? You all right?” Geralt asks, his tongue thick with sleep. Heat fills Jaskier’s cheeks. 

He loves Geralt like this.

Well, he loves him always. But right when he wakes, bleary-eyed and defenses down, oh. That’s just for Jaskier, now. It’s special, and it’s  _ his.  _

“I’m fine, darling,” he says softly, “just woke up for some water and couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“Mm.” Geralt shoves himself up on his elbows, brushes the stray hair from his eyes. Jaskier bites his lip, heat flooding downward this time as Geralt’s blankets fall to his waist. He sleeps naked here at the keep, and his physique looks almost unfairly good in the moonlight. Especially now that Jaskier is well acquainted with what he can do with it. Geralt smirks, as if he can tell what Jaskier’s thinking. Maybe he can, Jaskier’s never been good at hiding it, and he doesn’t have to, anymore. “Wanna come back to bed?”

“Can’t say no to that,” Jaskier breathes, and joins him. Geralt gives a pleased rumble as Jaskier presses their bodies flush. 

“Your feet are cold, come here. Mm. Your nose too,” he says, as he tugs Jaskier into his chest. 

It still feels so new, a gift, a secret wish come to light, that Jaskier gets to have this now. Geralt’s hand makes its way beneath the hem of Jaskier’s chemise, rubs gentle, warm circles on his back. Jaskier breathes deep, soothed by Geralt’s presence and familiar scent of his body, and it’s so  _ good,  _ he can’t help but smile into Geralt’s chest.

Traveling with Geralt had been such a storm for so long, always wild and beautiful, and sometimes violently cruel. And now, though the world storms out there in the night, Jaskier’s kept in the safety and comfort of Geralt’s love, laid bare and unrepentant at last.

As if Geralt knows what he’s thinking—or perhaps, just because he’s feeling it too—he squeezes Jaskier close and buries a kiss in his hair.

“I love you,” Geralt murmurs, easy as anything, and Jaskier wriggles, half-giddy with it.

“I love you too,” he says, and he doesn’t have to turn down the brightness of his smile. He tilts his head up and catches Geralt’s mouth in a kiss. Geralt deepens it, hesitantly, and Jaskier gives a muffled sound of encouragement and digs his fingers into Geralt’s hair. 

“Hm.” Geralt’s smirking again. It’s very pretty, especially up close. Jaskier dots a kiss onto his chin. “Still having trouble sleeping, then?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, heat blossoming through his core. “But I’ll fall asleep eventually, I’m sure—or would you like to help tire me out?”

Geralt rolls on top of him in one easy motion, and Jaskier can feel his naked body hot and hard through his own thin sleepclothes. 

“What d’you want?” Geralt rumbles. He sucks a kiss below Jaskier’s ear, right where he knows Jaskier loves it, and Jaskier shivers, rocking against him.

“Mm,” Jaskier hums thoughtfully, delighting in Geralt’s attentions. He could have anything he asks for, he knows, they’ve loved each other in every way they can think of, a hundred times over by now. Geralt will give him anything, and just that fact alone feels almost as good as the act itself. He’s comfortable and warm with wanting, and he can  _ have  _ it, now. “Fuck me?”

“Fuck,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier can feel his cock throb.  _ “Yes.” _

Geralt usually loves to take this part slow, to languish over opening Jaskier with his mouth and his fingers, taking him apart several times over before entering him. Maybe it’s the blanket of the snowy night, maybe Geralt can read it in Jaskier’s body, but he seems to understand that Jaskier doesn’t want that tonight. He fetches the oil and a cloth as Jaskier gets his clothes off. He spreads the cloth on the bed so they won’t have to worry about cleanup tonight, so Jaskier can just fall asleep on dry sheets after, and the simple consideration of it makes Jaskier pull him close, his breath catching. And then Geralt’s moving his fingers steady and focused inside, rutting against Jaskier’s thigh as he does.

“Now, please,” Jaskier whispers. He flashes Geralt a look and rolls onto his stomach. He wants to be covered, wants to be kept by Geralt’s protective heft, and Geralt understands this too.

He only takes a few more indulgent moments, but Jaskier shudders under his gaze. Geralt presses the heel of his hand over the expanse of Jaskier’s back, the divots of muscle, the soft rolls of his hip. He drags his thick fingers through the hair on Jaskier’s thighs, palms the globes of his ass. Jaskier feels so exposed, so  _ seen _ , in a way he never had with other lovers. It’s Geralt’s heightened senses, certainly, but it’s also the focus, the attention—the  _ affection _ that he feels in Geralt’s every movement. 

“You’re beautiful,” Geralt murmurs, settling above him, and Jaskier moans as much from his words as he does from the press of Geralt’s body upon him.

“Oh,” he breathes, arching his back, and Geralt gives him what he wants. “Oh,  _ oh, yes...” _

Geralt opens him slowly with his cock. Jaskier parts for him, his mouth falling open, and Geralt moves thick and hard inside him until he’s fully seated, the muscled plane of his pelvis hot against Jaskier’s ass.

And then he begins to move, rolling his hips in close, languorous thrusts that are exactly what Jaskier wants right now, and Jaskier buries his face in his arms and moans.

“Just like that,” he encourages, his voice rough. “That’s—fuck, that’s it, love, I want you just like that.”

Sometimes Geralt takes him hard, when he asks for it, sometimes he’s maddeningly teasing, but now, in the sweet, heady spell of the snow-soft night, Geralt—well. Jaskier gives a low gasp as the term surfaces in his sex-slowed mind.

Geralt makes love to him. 

He braces himself on one strong arm, the other soothing and intimate on Jaskier’s hip. He buries his face in the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder and kisses him, his nightly scruff a contrast to his soft mouth, his sweet tongue. And he moves into Jaskier the way the ocean caresses the shore, a steady rhythm, a safe and beautiful pace. Geralt doesn’t wring pleasure from Jaskier’s body tonight, he builds it, and soon Jaskier’s squirming beneath him, rutting against the sheets.

“Ah—”

“Hmm?” Geralt murmurs, petting Jaskier’s sweaty hair back now. “What is it, love?”

“Wanna turn over,” Jaskier manages, “want you to touch me, I’m—I’m close—”

Geralt chuckles into his shoulder. He gives Jaskier’s ass another fond squeeze before pulling out and turning him over.

Jaskier gasps, he can’t help it. Geralt’s so fucking beautiful, and he’s naked in the moonlight, his cock slick from where it’s been inside, his long hair brushing against Jaskier’s cheek. He’s smiling, his golden eyes warm with love, and Jaskier feels himself smiling too.

“Hi.” Geralt says, his voice impossibly tender.

“Hi,” Jaskier answers, breathless. He sweeps Geralt’s hair back, wraps his legs around him, and bites his lip. “Hi, you.”

Geralt makes a low, gratified sound and enters him again. Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling, but he opens them as soon as he can, to watch Geralt’s expression shift as he makes love to him. Geralt fills him up, spreads him open, rocks the head of his cock against that spot inside him that makes Jaskier see stars, but Jaskier focuses as best as he can through the haze of spiraling pleasure, on how Geralt huffs his breath through his mouth. How his nostrils flare, how the muscles in his shoulders shift as he moves.

_ “You’re  _ beautiful,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt’s hips stutter, cock flexing inside him.

“Jask—”

“You are, you’re so beautiful, I could look at you forever, and you’re so  _ good  _ to me—”

Geralt shakes his magnificent head.

“You deserve the best. I’ve got—I’ve got a lot to make up for.”

“None of that,” Jaskier says at once, tilting his hips up. “We’re here now, love, and you are, you are so,  _ so  _ good to me. No guilt, all right? Just keep loving me, that’s all, just as you do. Just as you are.” 

Geralt studies him for a moment, then lets his face sink into an easy smile again. 

“All right,” he says softly, and Jaskier beams at him. “All right,” he says again, and thrusts just that much harder that Jaskier gasps and bears down. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, and he can’t stop his eyes from shutting now, pleasure pooling hot and close beneath his skin. 

“That’s it, Jask,” he hears Geralt murmur as fucks him with those perfect, focused strokes, and then he feels Geralt wrap his big hand around his cock. Jaskier cries out loud enough he’s sure the keep will wake. He presses his own knuckles to his mouth to try and muffle himself, but Geralt wrenches it away and slides his fist over Jaskier’s cock again and again, keeping up his pace inside him. “Let them hear, let the mountains hear, it doesn’t matter. Only this matters, you and me. Just let it feel good. I’ve got you.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s breath hitches. He arches, hands going around Geralt’s body, trying to touch as much of him as he can. Geralt leans over him and lets him, pressing as close and as deep as possible while still stroking Jaskier’s cock between them, and Jaskier can’t stop saying his name, like a chant, like a song. “Geralt,  _ Geralt,  _ oh— _ oh!”  _

Jaskier comes with a  _ wail,  _ the slow build of pleasure inside him cresting like thunder as it spills over at last. His head rolls back and he clamps down around Geralt and comes and comes in Geralt’s palm, pulsing messily onto both their chests. And as he shudders through the sharp sweetness of his release, he feels Geralt come inside him, thrusting deep as he does, keeping up the pressure right where Jaskier likes it even in the midst of his own pleasure. Geralt had been waiting, Jaskier realizes, holding back, and that thought drags out his own orgasm even longer, the sensation spiraling through his entire body before it fades at last.

Geralt stays inside him until he can’t anymore, and when he pulls out Jaskier wraps him in his arms. 

“Was that okay?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier gives a sleepy snort.

“You make me feel so good,” he whispers, and he doesn’t just mean the sex. Geralt hmms—it’s nearly a  _ purr— _ and settles his weight comfortably on top of Jaskier.

And so Jaskier is, indeed, half-asleep when Geralt carefully disentangles himself at present. He registers Geralt fetching a fresh, damp cloth, parts his thighs so Geralt can clean him up. He feels Geralt lift him up just enough to move the sticky, spent one out from beneath him, lowering him on the dry sheets. And when Geralt pulls the blankets over them, shutting out the creep of cold from the snowy night, Jaskier can tell he’s about to doze very deeply indeed.

“Thanks for helping me sleep,” he says, snuggling into his arms. Geralt gives a soft laugh, and kisses him. 

“Anytime.”


	6. frostbite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's been trying to complain less. Then the frost comes, and Geralt ends up needing to warm him up.
> 
> Neither of them complain about that. 
> 
> Rated G.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mention of frostbite and the possibility of losing fingers, but it doesn't get too terrible and no one actually loses anything! Geralt gets to him in time <3

Geralt’s working on his poultices, so involved in the measurements it takes him a moment to notice the music’s stopped.

His first thought is relief, it’s always torturous to hear Jaskier composing. How much is he supposed to listen to Jaskier write love songs for some idiot who hasn’t recognized the bard’s obviously in love with him?

But then he hears a muttered litany of curses, and the wind changes, and Geralt catches the whiff of pain and fear in the air.

He drops his ingredients. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks gruffly, crossing the campsite in two strides. 

“Ah!” Jaskier starts, shoving his hands between his thighs with a wince. “It’s—it’s nothing, don’t worry about me, you’re busy—”

“Don’t fuck with me, bard,” Geralt growls. He examines him, circling, ignoring Jaskier’s sputtered protests. Nothing seems immediately wrong, except— _ oh. _

“Fuck,” Geralt groans, pulling Jaskier’s hands free. His fingers are deep pink, nearly white with cold. Geralt swears again. Yes, the winter’s definitely nearing, but he hadn’t really registered the evening frost had gotten this bad. Usually Jaskier leaves before it does.

“It’s fine,” Jaskier insists. He tries to wrench his hands away, but Geralt holds them tighter. 

“It’s not, they’d be frostbitten in a minute if I didn’t notice,” Geralt frowns. “Why didn’t you say anything? You’re not one to...not complain.”

Jaskier looks away.

“I—well, you see—” and then it dissolves into muttering. Geralt shakes his head.

“Tell me later, idiot. Come here while I get the fire going.”

Geralt mutters a quick igni at the fire and places their pot over it, pours some water from his own flask to let it heat. He tears a strip from his cleanest shirt. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice trembling, “I—I can’t feel them.” 

“I know. Don’t rub,” Geralt says, as Jaskier starts to, “you might damage the skin.”

Jaskier squeaks despairingly, but holds his hands still.

“Here,” Geralt sighs, and shuffles close. He lifts his armor and, ignoring Jaskier’s widening eyes, places Jaskier’s palms on his own stomach. They feel like  _ ice,  _ but he doesn’t flinch. “There’s nothing else for it while the water’s heating.”

Jaskier’s brow furrows.

“You’re so  _ warm.” _

“Mm.”

“It burns…”

“Good,” Geralt says, and tries not to let on how that makes him sag with relief. “That means the feeling’s coming back and you haven’t lost them.”

_ “Lost them?”  _ Jaskier exclaims in horror. Geralt rolls his eyes, flips Jaskier’s hands on his stomach to warm the outside. 

“Yes, obviously.” He tugs Jaskier’s hat lower, covering his ears, and rearranges his scarf. “Why aren’t you wearing the mittens I gave you?”

“I can’t play the lute with mittens on!” Jaskier says, indignant. 

“You can’t play the lute without fingers, either!” 

Jaskier’s eyes widen again, and they do seem very bright. Geralt relents.

“Stop with the face. We’re not going to let that happen, okay? You just can’t let it get this bad.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says, miserably.

“And I’ve seen plenty of very talented musicians missing fingers, by the way. Shouldn’t have spoken so soon.”

“Okay.”

The water’s heated enough by now, it can’t be too hot or it’ll burn. Geralt carefully places it between them and lowers Jaskier’s hands into it. He runs the scrap of his shirt through the steam first, then props it up above the fire. 

“How does that feel?”

“Better,” Jaskier says, now sounding thoroughly forlorn. The scent of pain is gone though, thank the gods.

“Okay. Keep them in the water until it cools, then wrap them in the cloth.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Jaskier looks up, panicked. “You can’t leave me like this, Geralt! I’ll wear the damn mittens, I’ll—”

“I’m going to try to find somewhere warmer for us to stay tonight,” Geralt tells him. “If there’s nothing, there’s nothing, but you shouldn’t sleep out here if you don’t have to.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, his voice small. “Thank you.”

“Shout if something tries to eat you.”

_ “Geralt!” _

It turns out there’s a small cave a ten minute walk from camp, occupied by several small creatures who only need a threatening glare to vacate for the night. Geralt doesn’t even need to kill anything. Jaskier’s gotten the warm cloth around his hands when Geralt returns, and it’s not long before Geralt’s packed up the camp and walked them to the cave, securing a sleepy Roach to a nearby tree. He gets another fire going and carefully unwraps the cloth from Jaskier’s hands to re-heat it. 

He holds them in his own, in the meantime.

“I think they’re just about healed, but you’re going to sleep in the mittens,” Geralt tells him.

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Geralt shakes his head.

“Jask. Seriously, why didn’t you say anything?”

Jaskier heaves a deep sigh and glances at Geralt, before frowning at their joined hands.

“Trying to complain less,” he mumbles.

“What?” That can’t be right.

“I’m trying to complain less!” he says, louder this time.

“But you  _ always _ —”

“No, actually, I don’t. I haven’t been, not as much, but I guess it was pointless because you haven’t noticed anyway,” Jaskier pouts, a wretched look on his face.

“Since when did you give a fuck what I think?” Geralt asks, genuinely bewildered, and Jaskier scoffs.

“I just—” he sighs again, eyes turning toward the roof of the cave. “Look, with the mittens and hat and all. You know I like staying with you until the winter means I can’t anymore,” and Geralt  _ had _ somewhat known, somewhere deep down, but hearing it said like this makes something inside him sing. “I just didn’t want to be a  _ burden.” _

“But you are a burden,” Geralt says without thinking, and Jaskier makes a shrill, despairing sort of sound. “No! I—ugh.” Geralt would bury his face in his hands, but they’re busy holding Jaskier’s. “Look, I am not...accustomed to having a human travel with me. At all.”

“I know, you’ve made that  _ abundantly  _ clear—”

“ _ And,”  _ Geralt continues, loudly, “you  _ do  _ require an awful lot more attention and time than were I traveling alone.” He nods at the cave around them, at Jaskier’s thawing hands. “That’s a burden, just by definition. You should know that, bard, you know words.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier groans.

“But I like carrying you,” Geralt says. Jaskier freezes, and goes quite red in the cheeks. Geralt shrugs. “I know I don’t say it. I don’t  _ like  _ saying it. But, uh. It’s true.”

Jaskier’s face spreads into a broad smile, all the sadness in his scent evaporating, replaced by a swell of joy and...love. 

Oh.

The idiot who hasn’t recognized Jaskier’s in love with him, indeed.

“You like taking care of me!” Jaskier crows, gleeful.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, Geralt!”

“Shut  _ up.” _

“You big softy, I’d hug you if you weren’t holding my hands—”

“Good thing I am, then—” Geralt starts, but then Jaskier tilts forward unthinkingly and kisses him on the cheek instead, and they blink at each other, wide-eyed. Geralt sighs. “No more secrets, okay? If you’re about to freeze, you tell me, and we stop you from freezing.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says softly. His face is very close. His hands are warm now, in Geralt’s hands, but Geralt doesn’t let go. “Er. In the interest of no more secrets?”

“Yes?” Geralt says, and he can’t help the small smile that’s tugging up the corner of his m outh.

Jaskier leans closer, a question there between his soft lips. And Geralt answers.


	7. favorite sweater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Geralt makes Jaskier a(n absolutely hideous) sweater, and Jaskier won't take it off, because he's smitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by valdomarx's beautiful [knitting witchers](https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/635968184204328960/in-many-ways-kaer-morhen-was-exactly-as-jaskier)! <3
> 
> Rated G.

“For you,” Geralt says gruffly, shoving the sweater into Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier’s eyes light up, and Geralt tries very hard not to feel too pleased at the sight. 

“Oh—wait, Geralt, did you  _ make  _ this?” Jaskier exclaims, examining the sweater with delight.

“Mm. You kept complaining about the cold last year. And since you insisted on following me here again this winter—”

“You  _ invited  _ me here to Kaer Morhen—”

“—and you can’t seem to pack properly.” Geralt continues, through gritted teeth, “I didn’t want to deal with your whining again. So.” He gestures. “Sweater.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says warmly, clutching it to his chest. “Thank you, Geralt, I love it. That was very nice. What would you like in return? A song? Ooh, or I could  _ bake—” _

“Shut up,” Geralt growls, and stomps out of Jaskier’s room before Jaskier catches him smiling.

***

Jaskier didn’t really need the sweater, Geralt knows.

He  _ can’t  _ seem to pack properly, but Eskel and Vesemir furnish him in enough furs to warm even the southernmost scholars, and he hasn’t complained much about the cold this winter at all. Everyone seems perfectly happy to drape him in their spare cloaks if he so much as shivers, because everyone seems to have taken such a damned  _ liking  _ to him.

Which Geralt, begrudgingly...understands.

It’s just that he likes to knit, when the winter evenings go long and there’s not much else to do. He’s kept yarn in his room since he was small, and Vesemir taught him. Now, he meditates and makes, there in the firelight.

The sweater is not the first thing he’s made for Jaskier.

The winters they were apart...mittens, hats, everything Geralt would normally make for himself, or to barter in a village (or gift to someone who seemed like they needed it), everything seemed to take on Jaskier’s exact size.

This is the just the first time Geralt’s gotten up the courage to give it to him.

So though he  _ won’t  _ admit it to himself, it means rather a lot that for the following week, Jaskier hardly ever takes it off. He actually wears it  _ proudly, _ grinning when Geralt catches his eye and opening his arms so Geralt can have a full view of him, yes, wearing it.

It’s a very upsetting thing indeed, then, when Lambert saunters over him one evening and says, “he  _ really  _ loves you, doesn’t he.”

Geralt freezes.

“The fuck are you talking about?” he asks stiffly.

“Geralt,” Lambert says, incredulous. He props his elbow on Geralt’s shoulder and gestures to Jaskier, in his sweater, playing one of his silly songs to an annoyingly enthusiastic Eskel and Coën. “That thing is  _ hideous.” _

“What.” Geralt’s ears redden.

“It’s  _ hideous,  _ Geralt! And he can’t take it off!” 

“He’s just cold,” Geralt grumbles, but Lambert laughs.

“I’ve offered him extra furs three times, he’s  _ not  _ cold, he just loves you.”

Geralt frowns at him.

“Is...is the sweater really that bad?”

Lambert shakes his head.

“Look, I adore you, old man, and you know I love when you knit. You’re actually very good at it. Still wear that scarf you made me, it’s kept beautifully! But I think your bard’s done your head in, because that thing is a monstrosity.”

Geralt fidgets.

“I thought he looked nice in it.”

Lambert rolls his eyes.

“He looks nice in everything because he’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, but even if he didn’t you’d think so, because you are fucking head over arse for that man.”

“Shut up,” Geralt growls, shoving him, but Lambert just grins again.

“He’s just as done-in as you, you know. Honestly, I wish I loved someone enough to wear that  _ embarrassment— _ ow! Hey, you should be  _ thanking  _ me!”

“Get away from me.” Geralt punches him again and takes a big swig of ale. He stares at Jaskier across the room, heart thundering in his chest. When Jaskier looks over again, he smiles at Geralt, eyes crinkling at the corners, plucking at his sweater. 

Geralt squints. It can’t be  _ that  _ bad, can it? He’d learned to do pom-poms just for this. They’re jaunty! Playful. Thought it suited Jaskier. And it’s a  _ nice  _ orange-brown color, really. It’s warm and soft. Just like Jaskier makes him feel.

...ah.

Fuck.

***

Geralt tries not to think about it.

He watches Jaskier wash the thing, dry it carefully so it doesn’t shrink, and wear it over and over. And he tries very diligently not to think about it.

He toys with the idea of making Jaskier something  _ decidedly  _ disastrous, maybe a scarf in garish stripes, or a floppy sort of hat, and seeing if he’d wear it with the same enthusiasm. But no matter how awful he imagines a garment, Jaskier still looks nice in it, in his mind’s eye.

He toys with just sneaking into Jaskier’s room and burning the damned thing.

He toys with running into the frozen lake and never returning.

But eventually, nearly a week later—and after several, increasingly exasperated encouragements from Lambert—Geralt makes a decision, and before he can stop himself, he strides to Jaskier’s room after they’ve turned in for the night.

“Hello, Geralt!” Jaskier greets him brightly. He’s wearing it, because of course he is. Geralt closes the door behind him and tries to meet Jaskier’s eye, but he ends up fixing his gaze somewhere around Jaskier’s knee instead. “Er. What’s...up?”

“If you hate the sweater, you don’t have to wear it,” Geralt growls. “I’ll—I’ll find you something else to keep warm with.” His fists are balled at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. 

“Wh-what?”

“If you’re just wearing it to be  _ nice,”  _ Geralt hisses, his chest aching,  _ “don’t.  _ I don’t—ugh. You shouldn’t do that.”

“But I don’t hate it!” Jaskier says, sounding genuinely bewildered. “I think it’s the sweetest thing, that you made this for me—”

“But you don’t actually like the sweater itself,” Geralt interrupts. His ears are very hot. “Right. Got it. Please burn it immediately and never speak of this again.”

He reaches for the door, but Jaskier crosses the room and places his palm against it, instead. Which brings his confused face very, very close to Geralt’s.

“What’s this about?” he asks softly. His eyes search Geralt’s face.

“Why do you wear it so much?” Geralt grumbles, and he’s astonished to watch Jaskier’s cheeks go slightly pink. 

“I  _ do  _ like it,” he insists, and from this proximity, Geralt can tell it’s not a lie. “I do think it’s impossibly sweet, that you made it for me. Is it—er.” He blushes, and something in Geralt’s gut twists. “Is it a bit _...different _ from my usual clothing preferences? Well, yes!” He takes a deep breath, and then tilts his chin up in defiance, and juts out his lip. “But honestly? I love when you give me things, I always do, even if it’s just food or a new pair of boots because mine have worn through, or new lute strings because you  _ snapped  _ one of mine. And this feels special! It—it feels almost like you’re holding me, and I know you’re not a hugger, Geralt, so this is the  _ closest  _ I’m going to get, and I never dreamed I’d get anything like this, so— _ oh!” _

Before he thinks better of it, Geralt wraps Jaskier tight in his arms.

It feels...fuck.

It feels so good.

He’s so  _ warm,  _ and solid, and the sweater, Geralt thinks indignantly, is very soft! So altogether it is a very nice hug experience. 

Not least because he’s been aching to do this for years.

Jaskier hugs him back at once, arms going around Geralt in a hurry and squeezing as if terrified Geralt will let go any moment and never do it again, which, Geralt supposes, he can’t blame him for thinking.

“Mm,” Geralt murmurs, rubbing Jaskier’s back. He’s such a pleasant height, really, tall enough that Geralt can bury his face in Jaskier’s throat, and he does. “‘m not going anywhere.”

Jaskier tenses.

“You’re—you’re not?”

Geralt heaves a sigh, and brushes his mouth against Jaskier’s cheek as light as he can.

“Not unless you want me to,” he says gruffly, and he’s worried he might have pushed it too far, too fast, but Jaskier’s beaming at him again, eyes very bright.  _ Oh. _

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, “I think I know what to give you. In return for the sweater.”

“I told you, you don’t have to _ —mmph!” _

Jaskier kisses him so tenderly it takes Geralt several moments to catch up to the fact that he is being kissed. It’s nothing like how he imagined Jaskier kisses, based on his songs. It’s tentative and gentle, his palm coming to rest so carefully on Geralt’s cheek. It’s a very,  _ very  _ good kiss. And when Jaskier pulls away, he studies Geralt’s face nervously.

“Was that all right? Gods, I didn’t get it wrong, did I—”

“I love you.” Geralt bursts out. “I—fuck, Jaskier. I love you.” He seizes Jaskier’s face just as it lights up and he kisses him again, harder this time. Jaskier’s arms go round his shoulders like they were meant to, and Geralt hears himself moan helplessly into the kiss.

“I love you too,” Jaskier says, breathlessly, when they pull apart at last. Distantly, Geralt registers a hoot from the hallway. Fucking Lambert is listening, obviously.

“Good,” Geralt sighs, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Good.” He clears his throat. “Er. Now, let me show you some of the other things I’ve knitted for you, I guess they’re probably better than this. At least you can switch them out.”

“Other things?” Fondness and something like dread war on Jaskier’s expression, but fondness, Geralt recognizes with some satisfaction, wins out. “Oh, you  _ do  _ love me, don’t you? Go on then, darling, dress me up. You know this means you’re going to have to wear the clothes I buy for you now, don’t you?”

“I already do, idiot,” Geralt growls, his ears very hot again. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so astonishingly happy. It is very pleasant.

“That’s true,” Jaskier agrees. He’s apparently incapable of not smiling anymore, and he lets Geralt drag him to his room. 

He tries on everything. 

He loves them all. 

And he insists Geralt teaches him how to knit too, so he can make Geralt clothes in return.

“I’m going to regret this,” Geralt groans, but Jaskier just pecks him on the cheek.

“No, you won’t,” he says. 

And he’s right.


	8. rosy cheeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's wonderful, being at Kaer Morhen. But it means that Jaskier doesn't get a lot of time alone with Geralt.
> 
> So he's very pleased (and a little wary) when Geralt invites him somewhere mysterious.
> 
> He never would have expected the bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learned about the Kaer Morhen hot springs fanon, and I just needed Jaskier to get very taken care of <3
> 
> Rated T.

_ “Where  _ are you taking me?” Jaskier asks suspiciously. Geralt had just come into his room after evening meal and told him to follow him. 

“Mm.”

There’s certainly a comfort to being at Kaer Morhen for the winter—it means that Geralt’s never far, that he gets to see him every day, that he knows Geralt  _ wants  _ him here, and that’s more than he’s ever gotten. Yet Jaskier still finds himself helpless to decline an invitation to spend time together just the two of them, even when it’s offered so cryptically. He’s with Geralt, yes, and he’s loved spending time with Ciri and the other wolves, but it means that he doesn’t often get to be alone with Geralt anymore. He...misses that. More than he lets himself think about.

Still, though. He trusts Geralt, but this is  _ weird.  _

They traveled through the lowest reaches of the keep, and now Geralt’s leading him through a series of rough-hewn stone passageways. They haven’t been going too long, but the way is very dark, and Jaskier keeps walking into the corners.

“Seriously, Geralt.” Jaskier trips over a crack in the rock and nearly crashes into him. “Where are we going?”

“Going to kill you in the heart of the mountain and hide your body,” Geralt says, turning to help Jaskier to his feet. 

“Ha ha, very funny.” Jaskier swallows hard as Geralt bends to brush the dust from his trousers, then turns to keep going. “You’re kidding. Right? ...right?!”

“Hmm.”

“Geralt!” 

“We’re almost there.”

“Almost  _ where?”  _ Jaskier demands, and then Geralt turns them one final corner and Jaskier stops in his tracks. “Oh!” 

The mountain passageway opens into one of the most magnificent spaces Jaskier’s seen in his life.

It’s an enormous cavern, filled with steaming stone pools blue enough to rival a summer sky. There are pathways winding through the pools, merrily lit with torches. They’re lined with little baskets of herbs and cloths, making the whole scene a balance of exquisite natural wonder and something homier and comfortable—very much like the keep itself. Jaskier’s awed eyes travel up the glittering limestone walls, to find the high stone ceiling dotted with several openings to let the steam out and the moonlight in. Through them, he can see the stars.

“Geralt,” he whispers. “I—I don’t know what to say—is this—?”

“Where I’ll cook and eat you?” Geralt deadpans from where he’s leaning against the wall, watching Jaskier take it in. “Yes.” But his eyes are shining, and Jaskier recognizes the telltale quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier says, already shedding his coats, because perhaps best of all, it’s  _ hot  _ in here. “This is fucking incredible.” He beams at Geralt. “Thank you!” 

“You shut up,” Geralt hums, heading for a nearby basket. “Go on, get in. I’ll get the bath things.” 

“The  _ what?”  _

“Get in, Jaskier. Before I change my mind.”

Jaskier eagerly complies, shoving his clothes off and dipping his feet into one of the pools with the best views of the stars. He groans in pleasure as he does. The water is hot, not uncomfortable at all but  _ properly  _ hot, not like a regular bath. This is special, indulgent. He finds a little ledge midway down the pool, the perfect height to sit on and stretch out.

“Kaer Morhen used to be underwater,” Geralt says softly. He’s removed his boots, outwear, and trousers, hitched his smallclothes up his thighs. He sits behind Jaskier, placing a foot on the ledge on either side of him. Jaskier smells an herbal tincture, and when Geralt dips a cup into the pool and pours it over Jaskier’s head, he freezes, trying not to let on exactly how much he likes it for fear Geralt will stop. He doesn’t, though. He starts washing Jaskier’s hair, instead, without a word of explanation. “The sea covered these caves, and when time and tide swept it back, the salt pools remained.”

“They’re beautiful,” Jaskier says, his voice hushed. He knows there are a thousand other words for it, a far more poetic way to put it, but he can’t think about a song while Geralt’s hands pet him so carefully. Geralt massages his scalp with strong, slow fingers, smoothing his hair back from time to time to keep the herbs and hot water away from Jaskier’s eyes. 

Time goes somewhat blurry at the edges. Life at the keep means always being part of the pack, and this is an impossible gift of intimacy. The low hiss of steam, the hazy quiet of the caves, Geralt’s hands on him—it feels like a dream, and Jaskier desperately doesn’t want to wake. 

“We’d come here after training sometimes,” Geralt tells him presently. “Not too often, Vesemir didn’t want us going  _ soft.  _ He knew it helped, though, to have somewhere to relax. Good for the muscles too.” He huffs a laugh. “And the smell, probably. Not all pups like baths, but these pools—none of us needed persuading for this.”

“Gods, I’m  _ sure.” _ Jaskier doesn’t know what else to say, but Geralt doesn’t seem to need him to. He sets about rinsing the herbs from Jaskier’s hair as tenderly as he scrubbed them in. He leans forward to gather more water in his cup and Jaskier shuts his eyes, trying not to stare at that familiar face bent over him.

Jaskier’s bathed Geralt a thousand times. Scrubbed him clean of blood and mud, rinsed the filth from his skin, washed his wounds and tended to his scars. He’s done this without being asked, because Geralt never would. And because he wants to, and someone should.

Never once, in his wildest, hopelessly romantic fantasies, has he dreamed Geralt would return the favor. He hadn’t even thought to want it. Getting to take care of Geralt, he’d thought that was enough.

But now, Geralt gently tilts Jaskier’s head back, shifts to pillow it on his own thigh, and Jaskier doesn’t ever want to be anywhere else.

And then Geralt gets his hands sudsy with another set of herbs and starts to rub his way across Jaskier’s bare chest and arms, and even though all he wants is to lean into it and savor it, Jaskier  _ needs  _ to occupy his mouth with words else it is  _ going _ to start moaning.

“So—so wait, you said you used to come down here, as pups?” Jaskier glances at the lit torches, the many baskets. “You don’t anymore?”

“We do.” Geralt’s broad palms run over Jaskier’s throat, and he fights back a shiver.

Jaskier lets out a high laugh.

“Ha! Lucky me then, that we get the place to ourselves tonight.” Fuck, is he being obvious again? “Not that I wouldn’t—that is—I love spending time with them, you know that! It’s just that this is…” he waves his hand weakly. “Nice.”

And then...and then he feels a muscle in Geralt’s thigh twitch beneath him, and registers a small, but definitely present, hesitation in Geralt’s hands.

“Mm.”

“...Geralt?”

Geralt sighs. He cups Jaskier’s head and tilts him forward, and for one devastating moment Jaskier thinks that he’s spoiled it, that it’s over—but Geralt only starts massaging the herbs into his shoulders, his tired back, and oh, that’s  _ good. _

“I might have asked them to shove off. For the night.”

Jaskier’s heart twists in his chest. He  _ really  _ doesn’t know what to say to that, he’s only glad he can blame his bright pink cheeks on the steam.

“That’s—ah!” Jaskier doesn’t know what he was starting to say, but he cuts himself off as Geralt digs his thumb just so into a muscle in his back.

“You’re tense,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can hear him frown, sounding  _ confused, _ and then Jaskier can’t take it anymore. Reluctantly, because  _ wow  _ it feels good, he wrenches himself away from Geralt’s grasp and spins in the pool, kneeling on the ledge to face Geralt.

Oh fuck, he looks good here though. Even frowning (not that that’s a surprise), he’s pink-cheeked too in the steam, and his muscles gleam through his rough chemise. 

“Of course I’m tense!” Jaskier hisses. He wants to shout it, but it feels wrong to disturb the peace of this place. “What... _ is  _ all this, Geralt? You bring me to one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, you  _ bathe  _ me which you have  _ never  _ done before, and—and you made sure we’d be alone? What’s going on?”

“I.” Geralt starts, then looks heavily down at his still-soapy hands.

Jaskier realizes, with a  _ very  _ severe start, that perhaps Geralt’s rosy cheeks are not, in fact, due entirely to the steam.

“Geralt?” he asks. He’s trying,  _ trying  _ not to let himself hope, because it always hurts so horribly much when he does, but this time, this time—

“I like when it’s just you and me,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier nearly passes out in the pool. “I am... _ so  _ glad you’re here. And I love seeing you get along with Ciri, with my brothers. But.” He shrugs, darting his gaze to Jaskier, then back at his hands. “We haven’t really gotten a chance to just. Be like we were. Haven’t been alone for more than a minute since—well—”

“Since you apologized,” Jaskier finishes for him, “and asked me to come to the keep.”

“Mm.” And then Geralt looks at him and gives that hint of a grin, and it’s...nearly  _ sheepish?  _ And  _ that _ feels just as good as his hands did. “The pools, though. I’ve been wanting to bring you here a long time and, well. I’ve owed you a bath, I think. Probably several.”

“Several  _ hundred,”  _ Jaskier points out, “but who’s counting.”

“You, clearly.”

Jaskier laughs, splashing him. 

“Try that again and I’ll drown you it in.” 

Jaskier splashes him again, a dare in his eyes, and the next thing he knows Geralt’s shucked off the last of his clothes, nearly upending the herbs as he does. He jumps into the pool and they’re wrestling, slipping on the stone, sloughing water over the edges, and Jaskier feels like he could melt.

“All right,” Geralt says, steadying Jaskier on the edge of the pool. “Enough. I’ve still got to get the rest of your back!”

Jaskier bites his lip. It feels like pushing it, but he no longer feels like Geralt’s on the edge of running away anymore, and now feels like the time.

“Well...would you just sit with me? For a moment? I  _ definitely  _ want you to keep going, but I also just want to look at the stars, for a bit. It’s so beautiful here.”

Geralt looks at him. His hands are still on Jaskier’s shoulders. There are no clothes between them, there’s no one watching, there’s no danger here. There’s just them, and the night, and what they choose to do with it.

Jaskier glances up at the stars. The crescent moon peeks through, the same moon he’s spent so long staring at when they were apart, wishing Geralt were with him, and now—

Geralt’s still looking at him. His hands move, almost imperceptibly, tugging Jaskier closer. 

“Yeah,” Geralt murmurs. He brings his thumb to Jaskier’s rosy cheek. “Beautiful.”

And then Geralt kisses him, there in the moonlight.

Geralt kisses him, as tender and careful as he had moved when he washed him, soft lips parting Jaskier’s, one hand cradling Jaskier’s head, the other moving to Jaskier’s bare waist, beneath the water.

Jaskier spends nearly a full minute in a daze, letting himself be kissed, convincing himself it’s really happening—and then he lunges, and kisses him back so roughly he slips on the stone, sliding his body into Geralt’s again.

Geralt catches him, chuckling into his mouth. He settles himself to sit on the ledge and pulls Jaskier onto his lap.

“D’you want me to finish the bath?” Geralt asks presently, his voice a low rumble against Jaskier’s throat.

“Yeah,” Jaskier gasps, pressing against him. “But why don’t you get me a bit dirtier, first?”

“All right,” Geralt says softly, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Hey. I love you, you know.”

“I didn’t, actually.” Jaskier’s gone very, very hot. Geralt’s eyes widen, and he reaches for a flask of cool water. Jaskier drinks from it, trying not to choke.

“Never thought I deserved you,” Geralt tells him, massaging his hands into Jaskier’s hips. “Lambert, of all fucking people, told me my self-loathing was actually hurting you.”

Jaskier kisses him again, because he can now.

“I owe him several drinks,” he murmurs into Geralt’s mouth.

“Mm. Let’s not talk about my brother anymore.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says breathlessly, and sinks into Geralt’s arms. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“I love you, too.”

They would stay in the pools until morning, but Geralt insists it’s not good for Jaskier to sit in the steam for too long. He bundles him back up and they set off for Geralt’s room instead, where they do, indeed, stay until well into the morning.

They return to the pools quite often, but Geralt doesn’t wait for the next time they have the space to themselves to give Jaskier another bath. That, he does quite often now.

Though he often ends up sharing it. But Jaskier’s  _ not  _ complaining.


	9. snowball fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is very protective of their toddler, in the winters. His husband gently persuades him to let her play in the snow. The rest of the family joins in. 
> 
> Rated T (for husband bath time, at the end).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, this is a "they're husbands and Ciri's their adopted daughter" au, absolute soft self-indulgence because they deserve it and I need it for them <3

“Absolutely not. It’s the coldest it’s been all winter!”

“You say that every day,” Geralt reminds him patiently. Jaskier’s eyes widen in indignation. He clutches their toddler close, bouncing her on his hip and nuzzling her cheek. 

“Well, it’s _true_ every day!” he insists, petting Ciri’s soft, golden curls. She beams at him. He pulls a face, sticking out his tongue, and she giggles delightedly, clapping her mittened hands against his chest. 

“It’s sunny out,” Geralt says softly. “It’ll be good for both of you to get some air.” He touches his knuckles to Ciri’s cheek, and she clasps his fingers in both her hands. “She’s not cold at all, anyway. We’ll wrap her up, she’ll be fine.”

“Are you implying I need some _air—”_ Jaskier gasps, bristling, but then Ciri smiles up at Geralt and cheeps “Papa!” and he melts into a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. She turns to him and says it again, “Papa!” because that’s what she calls them both, and they think it’s so sweet they don’t care that they’ll have to teach her another name for one of them eventually, before it gets confusing. It fits, somehow. They are so very different, but they share a heart. It belongs to her, and each other. 

“Yes,” Geralt tells him, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s brow. “You do. And I just think it’d be fun.”

Jaskier gives him a very doubtful look. 

Geralt takes Ciri into his arms and carries her to their bedroom window. She gazes, eyes wide with awe, out at the snow-strung mountains, and makes a sweet, surprised sound. Her hands reach out, grabbing for the softly falling flakes.

Jaskier groans. Geralt refrains from smirking at his husband, though only by pressing a kiss to Ciri’s temple.

 _“Fine,”_ Jaskier relents, wiping Ciri’s chin with the cloth on his shoulder. “Ten minutes in the snow.”

“Thirty.”

“Fifteen!”

“Fine.”

***

The moment they get Ciri (and Jaskier) appropriately bundled and out into the courtyard, though, all three of them lose track of time at once. 

The world is impossibly bright. The sun gleams off the fresh-fallen snow, and Ciri squeals happily at the flakes that fall on her cheeks. There’s a path cut through the waist-high banks to the training grounds. Geralt takes her, bends to hold both her hands and lets her toddle in front of them. They’re a little ways down the path, and then happens to glances up at his husband, and he nearly slips and crashes into Ciri. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs, steadying them both. “You’re so beautiful.”

Jaskier smiles, his eyes scrunching with fondness, and he looks lighter than he has in days. He takes a deep breath, stretching his arms over his head.

“Don’t curse—”

“—in front of her, right,” Geralt remembers too late. “Fuck, Jask, I’m sorry...fuck.” 

Jaskier laughs, his shoulders loose and shaking with it. He kicks a flurry of snow up from the bank, and Ciri stomps and cheers in delight. 

“Well, she’ll learn the swear words soon enough, I suppose,” he sighs. “And if you’re _going_ to curse, I’m very glad it’s at my beauty.”

Ciri wrenches away to sit down hard in a dip of the snowbank, slapping her mittened hands gleefully into the powder. Geralt takes the opportunity to tilt his husband’s chin to him, taking in the familiar curve of his mouth, the glittering snowflakes gathered in his hair and his long lashes. 

“Been cursing your beauty since the day we met, bard.”

Jaskier grins prettily, pressing his gloved hand to Geralt’s chest.

“And I yours, husband.”

Geralt growls and pulls him into a kiss, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders. It’s been years but Geralt still hasn’t stopped feeling a wildly pleasant jolt every time Jaskier calls him that, and he doesn’t think he ever will. He never thought he’d like the term, but when Jaskier says it, it’s tender and proprietary and embarrassing and yet somehow overwhelmingly romantic all at once, and Jaskier gives a little moan into his mouth, and says it again. 

Geralt moves to kiss his cheek, and then realizes— _no_ —

“Where’s _—oof.”_

The snowball catches Geralt on the side of the head. He turns his gaze in its direction, to find Ciri happily toddling on the snowy path towards her uncles. She’s made a beeline for her favorite, Lambert, who’s packing another snowball.

“Get a room!” Lambert calls, laughing. Geralt tugs Jaskier out of the way of the next snowball, though only just. 

“We have one!” Jaskier calls back, already wriggling free of Geralt’s grasp to start packing his own frozen ammunition. “Your brother made me leave it!” His snowball hits Eskel square in the gut, and Geralt feels a wave of pride at his aim.

“And aren’t you glad we did?” Geralt points out, loud enough for his brothers to hear. Lambert kneels to help Ciri pack her own snowball, which makes her squeal with joy.

“Not when it’s three against two!”

“Four!” Lambert shouts. He scoops Ciri up and takes her hand in his, helping her fling her snowball at them with considerable force. “Don’t count out your cub, here!” 

“I would _never!_ Geralt, come on! They’ve turned our own daughter against us, we have to defeat them—”

“Yes, dear.” 

What follows is perhaps some of the silliest fun Geralt and his brothers have had in the snow since they were pups. Not least because Ciri seems to be happily torn between her fun uncles and Jaskier’s (mostly) mock sense of betrayal, and immediately takes to racing below the volley of snowballs from one side to the other, shrieking cheerfully and letting her family scoop her up in turns to fling snow at the rest. Eskel’s the best of the wolves, but Jaskier gets in some good shots that Geralt has to stop himself from rewarding with kisses. Midway through it seems like the game might go sour when Ciri takes a fistful of powder right in her face, and everyone freezes, terrified that she’s hurt or might cry—but after a few moments of startled blinking, she only lets out her brightest laugh yet and flings herself faceforward in the snow, and they continue. 

By the time they’re done, the pristine snowbanks are in ruin, and everyone’s quite covered in powder. Ciri’s back in Geralt’s arms, quite ready for a warm bath, a feeding, and her afternoon nap.

The others stay to resume what of their training they can salvage before nightfall, but Lambert trails them inside.

“I can take her for a few hours, after you get her all washed and dried,” he says, brushing snow from Ciri’s clothes. “I’ll get her fed and she can nap in my room.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Jaskier says.

“It is.” Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Why?”

Lambert rolls his eyes in a _if-you’re-gonna-make-me-say-it-aloud_ sort of way.

“You two don’t need to spend _every_ minute with her between you. Let the rest of us pitch in occasionally.” 

Geralt darts a look at his husband, almost sure he won’t go for it until Ciri’s a bit older, maybe in her thirties—but Jaskier’s looking at him with a very familiar, hungry expression.

“All right,” Geralt says, grinning. “Thanks.”

“You know, so you two can—” Lambert covers Ciri’s ears— “ _have a bath_ yourselves, you know.”

“We get it, Lambert.”

“‘Cause honestly, you need it. You’ve got to take care of him, Geralt, he’s far too good for you and if you’re not going to appropriately satisfy your pretty husband, it’s not like he doesn’t have options, I, for one— _oi!”_

Geralt had turned to kick his brother, but Jaskier’d gotten there first. 

“No options necessary, I’m afraid, I’m rather very fucking spoken for,” Jaskier says, but he’s grinning too. Knows Lambert knows, knows he’s just reminding Geralt how lucky he is, in his own Lambert way. “Thank you, darling, we’ll bring her over after her bath.”

“Anytime,” Lambert says, tweaking Ciri’s nose, and Geralt knows he means it. And well he should, their daughter is a fucking _gift._

“You swore again,” Geralt tells his husband, an hour later. Ciri’s with Lambert, and the bath is hot and wonderful. Jaskier’s sitting between his thighs in it so Geralt, hands slick with chamomile, can carefully massage the knots out of his muscles. 

“Did I?” Jaskier says distractedly, groaning as Geralt digs his thumbs into a particular spot on his lower back. “Oh, _there,_ love, that’s good—”

“Mmhm,” Geralt hums, massaging dutifully where asked. He presses a kiss to the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder, breathing him in. “‘Rather very _fucking_ spoken for,’” he repeats, punctuating each word with a deeper press of his fingers, and a kiss.

“All right, fair point,” Jaskier says, somewhat breathless. His fingers dig into Geralt’s thighs. “Well, I think it’s still worth _trying_ to swear less around her, even if we can’t entirely.”

“You’re right,” Geralt concedes. He lets this kiss come with a bit of teeth, and Jaskier moans, tilting his head in encouragement. “I liked it,” he confesses, low and conspiratorial in Jaskier’s ear. 

“What?’

“When you remind everyone you’re mine. _Emphatically.”_

Jaskier bites his lip and smiles, leaning back into Geralt’s body. 

“I _am_ yours,” he murmurs, and it turns into a gasp as Geralt’s palm moves to his front. “Emphatically.” 

“And I’m yours,” Geralt tells him, already intoxicated by the sounds he’s pulling from Jaskier. “ _Husband.”_

It’s not easy, falling into a schedule with a new toddler, but they do work out a good rhythm. The snowball fights become more frequent on weekends, and so, importantly, do Lambert’s afternoons watching Ciri.


	10. hot drinks (and heartbeats)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they play a rather tipsy game of truth or dare at Kaer Morhen. Someone asks Jaskier if he's in love, and when he says no, well. 
> 
> Geralt always knows when he's lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been a wreck of [this post](https://twitter.com/drmattdambrosio/status/1340045852627222528?s=21) since I saw it, so. This had to happen.
> 
> Rated T.

It’s late, Ciri long since put to bed. Jaskier, who seems to take it upon himself to bring at least twelve genuinely excellent, simple recipes and their necessary ingredients every winter, has brewed them a particularly impressive batch of strong, hot mulled wine. 

The night’s gone rather fuzzy at the edges.

“Three...two...one! All right, enough!” Lambert roars, the small hall warm with tipsy laughter, and Eskel drags his bare arse in from where he’d had it out the window for a full minute.

“I’ll get you back for that,” he growls at Jaskier, but Jaskier’s giggling too hard to take him seriously, leaning heavily on Geralt’s arm. They’ve ended up next to each other on a bench. They didn’t start off that way, but after Geralt’s unassisted keg stand, he sat down hard next to Jaskier and hasn’t budged since. 

“You could have bowed out at any time!” Jaskier points out.

“And be bested by a bard!” Eskel feigns horror, doing up his trouser laces. “Not a chance.” He reaches for his mug and pours himself more wine.

It had been, to be fair, one of the most devious dares of the night. The frost  _ bit,  _ and most of the other witchers’ dares mainly involved breaking things. Jaskier had been dared to do four cartwheels in a row, which much to everyone’s astonishment, he’d executed easily, even several mugs in. He’d also been dared (by Lambert) to sniff everyone else’s left armpits, which he found  _ far  _ more of a challenge, but took to it with good humour.

“Your turn again.” Geralt nudges Jaskier’s thigh with his mug. Jaskier groans, his head lolling on Geralt’s shoulder.

“‘M too tired to do more dares,” he complains, topping off his mug.

“So that’s it?” Lambert says quickly, “you’re out?”

Jaskier sighs theatrically, and takes another swig. And then another, he really  _ has  _ outdone himself, the spice balance making for a very drinkable concoction indeed. Certainly seems to have pleased his hosts, they’ve made their way through several barrels. 

“No,” he concedes, “but I’ll do a truth, this time.”

Lambert, Eskel, and Coën all eagerly stomp their feet, heads coming together (clunking together, really) to think of something good, but Jaskier feels Geralt tense. He tilts his head up, with only a little difficulty. He can smell the wine on Geralt’s breath. He can only imagine what Geralt smells on him. 

“You good?” he asks softly. Geralt stiffens, glancing down.

“Yeah. Fine. Why?”

“Just checking,” Jaskier says. It’s fine that Geralt won’t tell him what’s wrong. He just wants Geralt to know he can, if he wants to. He pushes himself up slightly, reaches for the waterskin instead, and pours some of the cool fresh water down his throat to clear his head, just a bit. He passes it to Geralt, then prods him with it, when Geralt declines. “Come on. It’s been a  _ lot  _ of wine.”

Geralt’s brows knit, but he takes the water from Jaskier, and drinks. Jaskier smiles at him, and without waiting for one in return, settles himself against Geralt’s shoulder again.

“All right, bard,” Eskel slurs, rounding on him. “We’ve got one.” Jaskier extends his arms.

“Do your worst, witcher!”

“Have you ever been in love?”

A spike of panic goes through Jaskier’s gut, but it’s dulled by both the wine and practice. Hiding his feelings is as familiar as breathing. Has been since Geralt found him after the mountain. 

“Of course,” Jaskier laughs, “you must be joking. I know I’m a great deal younger than you lot, but I’ve lived quite a bit, and love is one of my favorite pastimes, you must know! A hundred times, perhaps, each more charming than the last.” 

“Ah,” Lambert says wickedly, tilting close and splashing some of his wine to the floor. “But what about now?”

“What about now?” 

“Are you in love,” Lambert says slowly, “right now?” 

Jaskier hesitates only a fraction of a moment. He’s usually  _ quicker,  _ damn it, but the wine has slowed his reflexes. At least it also serves to explain the flush that’s risen in his cheeks.

“Ah, if only!” he swoons, laughing easily. “It is so very lovely to be in love, but alas, my heart hasn’t found a partner.” 

He’s nose-deep in his mug again before he realizes no one’s said anything. The others are staring pointedly, in fact, right at Geralt, who has gone stiff once again. Jaskier’s heart thunders in his chest, his blush flooding through to his ears.

“Boring,” Coën grunts at last. “All right, c’mon, who’s next?”

The game picks up again, devolving mainly into Geralt’s brothers exchanging bawdy stories, but Geralt only chimes in with a chuckle here and there. Jaskier’s heartbeat steadily returns to normal, and he feigns delight at the stories as best as he can.

It’s getting harder to keep his feelings to himself. 

He knows that, somewhere in the corner of his heart. Coming to Kaer Morhen always highlights it, and he’d let it spill over, there on the mountain, and he’d thought that was it, it was over, he’d always grieve it but at least he knew, but then Geralt apologized and now he’s here again and there’s Ciri and he  _ likes  _ being here, and Geralt’s shoulder is warm against his body and he has so much, but he wants all the rest of it, and it feels so, so close. Even though it’s impossibly far away.

“Mm. Nearly sunup.” Geralt gently pushes Jaskier off him, and stretches. “We’d best get to bed.” 

The others agree, and there’s the usual bustle of cleanup and goodnighting.

“Good wine, bard,” Eskel says blearily, clapping Jaskier hard on the shoulder. “Good game, too.” 

Jaskier’s halfway to his room before he hears his name spoken softly in the hallway, in a voice he’d know at the end of the world. 

He turns, and his breath catches in his chest. Geralt is beautiful, as he always is, the moonlight streaming through the window and glancing off his cheek. He’s also frowning.

“You lied,” Geralt says, peering at him. Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up again.

“What? When?”

“You’re in love,” Geralt murmurs, his frown deepening. “Right now.”

“I—don’t be ridiculous, I—”

“I can hear it in your heartbeat, Jask,” Geralt says. “Don’t know who it is, but I know you were lying about it.” He sounds odd. Almost...sad?

“Oh.” Jaskier thinks on this for a moment, then meets Geralt’s eye in horror. “Wait. Can you always tell when I’m lying? Can all witchers? What else can you tell by my heartbeat?”

Geralt gives a flicker of a smile, though there’s a shadow across it.

“I think I can,” he says slowly. “Not...it’s not like I can read your mind.”  _ Thank Melitele for that.  _ “It’s more than I can hear when your emotions get heightened, and tell the rest from context. As for other witchers, my brothers could certainly tell, tonight, when it was just us in the room and you’re the only human.”

“Fantastic,” Jaskier says shakily.

“But were we in a crowd, or if it wasn’t so obvious what your heart was reacting to, no, I don’t think they’d know.” Geralt raises an eyebrow. “I would, though.”

“Wha— _ why? _ That hardly seems fair!”

Geralt shrugs. 

“I’d know your heartbeat anywhere, Jaskier. Just yours.” He gives that same, sad sort of smile, and Jaskier feels his knees go weak. “Travel with me long enough and I guess I can’t help it. Sorry if it’s weird, but it’s not like it’s my fault. Comes in handy anyway, to know when you’re in trouble before you call for help.” 

“Oh, that’s how you rush in so fast,” Jaskier says, realizing. Geralt snorts. 

“Happens more often than it should, bard. Though sometimes I must get it wrong,” he says, his brow knitting. “I always know it’s  _ you,  _ that holds, but sometimes I think I hear it quicken when there’s no danger at all, just us having dinner, or bathing or something.” Jaskier wants to scream. “Tonight, though, I was sure of what I heard.” Geralt shifts his weight. “I didn’t realize you were in love with someone.”

Jaskier’s heartbeat, the  _ damned  _ thing, picks up again. 

“What does it matter?” Jaskier says, his voice nearly a whisper. Geralt frowns again.

“It matters! I—I like when you come with me, in the winters,” Geralt says. The words come jerky, like he’s digging them out of his chest. “I like having you here. But I didn’t know you were in  _ love _ .” Geralt looks at him, and Jaskier realizes with a start that there’s...hurt, in his sunrise eyes. “Feels wrong to keep you from your beloved.”

And maybe it’s the aftermath of the wine, but most likely it’s just the long-held truth, rising to the surface at last, because instead of dismissing it or cracking a joke, Jaskier looks him straight in the eye, and says,

“You’re not.”

He lets his gaze linger meaningfully on Geralt’s dumbfounded face for just a moment, and turns to walk to his room.

“Wait,” Geralt says, his voice rough, “wait!”

Jaskier turns, and Geralt’s there, a breath away, nearly nose to nose.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, his eyes bright with confusion and—fucking gods, could it be—something close to hope?

“Yes?” Jaskier says defiantly, his chin raised. His heartbeat is roaring, he knows, in Geralt’s ears.

Geralt kisses him with so much hunger, so much desperate want written into every line of his body, that Jaskier understands all at once he was not the only one keeping his feelings to himself. Geralt kisses him with everything he is, and Jaskier gives him all his own love right back, and it tastes of longing, and relief, and hot, mulled wine.

***

“It was...love, then?” Geralt asks several hours later, his voice rough from the moans Jaskier’s drawn from him. Jaskier laughs into his chest, tugging the sweaty blankets around them both.

“Thought we’d covered that, darling,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s jaw, but Geralt shakes his head, his palm comfortingly heavy on Jaskier’s bare shoulder.

“All the other times. When your heartbeat picked up. When I made you dinner, when we fell asleep tangled for warmth, when we washed each other.” Geralt looks at him, and he looks so  _ shocked  _ about it Jaskier aches, and kisses him, because he can now. “I thought I was just reading you wrong. I had no idea what it could be.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says. It still feels impossible that he can say it aloud, but Geralt is warm and bare and giving beneath him, and Jaskier trusts him. “It’s always been love.”

Geralt swallows, hard.

“I’ve never,” he starts gruffly. “No one’s ever—” he tries again. He shuts his eyes. Jaskier cards his fingers through Geralt’s hair, where it’s come loose from its bindings. “I’d never heard anyone’s heart do that, before.  _ No  _ one,” he says meaningfully, “not with me,” and Jaskier understands. He doesn’t like thinking about Geralt with anyone else, but he’s faced it before, and he knows what Geralt’s recognizing, here. Knows it’s important. “Lust, that’s one thing, that I recognize. In you, in—lots of people.”

“All right,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, “yes, you’re very desirable.”

_ “But,”  _ Geralt goes on, holding Jaskier close. “How  _ you  _ get, with me? That’s...Jask.” Geralt shakes his head, and groans. “And I was such a  _ fucking  _ shit to you.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees, “you were.” He takes a deep breath. “But you’re done now, darling. It’s all right.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, serious now, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think I deserved you. And  _ love,  _ fuck—I couldn’t even recognize it when it was right in front of me—when  _ you  _ were right in front of me—never, I never thought anyone could, and then I went and nearly ruined it—”

“Hey,” Jaskier interrupts him, taking Geralt’s face in his hands. “Hey. I mean it, Geralt. I get it.” He smiles, feeling quite warm indeed. “I love you. All of you, including the parts of you that you were taught didn’t deserve to be.” Geralt’s eyes go very bright, and Jaskier kisses one sharp cheek, then the other. “Give me your worst, witcher,” he says softly. “Give me your rage and your loneliness. Give me your heartache, your scars, and your silence. I’ll bear it all, and I’ll make music out of how deeply fucking good you are anyway, how deserving you are of love, because I know you, and I see you, and it’s true even if you couldn’t see it yourself.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, his voice rough with awe, and then Jaskier’s being kissed again, cradled within Geralt’s strong arms and kissed into oblivion, and  _ very  _ pleased with it. “I love  _ you,  _ Jaskier, and I  _ don’t  _ deserve you, not yet. But I will. I’ll earn it, I swear I will. I love you. I love you.”

“I know,” Jaskier smiles. “I trust you,” he says, and Geralt smiles back, broad and unguarded, because he can tell it’s the truth. 


	11. hibernation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a chilly winter's morning in Kaer Morhen, the husbands have breakfast in bed.
> 
> (it's Jaskier, Jaskier is the breakfast in bed.)
> 
> Rated Explicit.

Jaskier wakes cold for the first time in weeks. Geralt’s side of the bed is empty. The light streaming in through the stone keep windows is early still, and Jaskier feels a shiver of worry before he hears the comforting, familiar bustle from the kitchen. He burrows deeper into the blankets, head still thick with sleep.

Usually, he rises with Geralt in the winters. Jaskier’s taken it upon himself to be of as much use as possible at Kaer Morhen, even though he’s been reassured he doesn’t owe anyone anything for his stay. He likes it, honestly: the wolves look at him with such gratitude and warmth when he prepares meals from ingredients he’s brought, tidies things about the keep, and it’s a pleasant way to make use of his hands when the others are at work at their training and Ciri’s. He has quite enough time to compose alongside it, and it feels good to clear his head. 

But a few evenings a month, Vesemir gruffly insists Jaskier leave the cooking to him and the rest of them for a bit, and last night was one such evening, so Jaskier has nothing to do but lounge in bed until his hunger wins out over his sleepiness.

Typically, Jaskier does not spend those mornings alone. 

But ah, well. He rolls onto Geralt’s pillow and breathes in the lingering scent of his husband, wishing he’d gotten a good morning kiss at least, before he loses him to the clatter of training and the pack during the day.

And then the door swings open. Jaskier peeks out over the blankets to see steaming fresh bread, a jar of his favorite honey, several piles of dried fruit, and Geralt, balancing them and several other items in his arms, smiling faintly. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, warmth flooding his chest.

“Good morning.” Geralt closes the door behind him. There’s mulled wine and water and a little stone-and-candle contraption too, which Geralt sets up easily on the table next to the bed. The candle flickers to life with a quick gesture of Geralt’s fingers, and then he places the bread, honey, and wine atop it. “So they don’t go cold,” he explains. Jaskier’s about to ask why they would if they’re just going to eat now, but then Geralt shucks his shirt, and Jaskier’s eyes go wide.

“Good  _ morning,”  _ he says, tugging his husband to him. 

“I hope you haven’t been awake long,” Geralt murmurs into his mouth. He’s hot and sturdy pressed up against Jaskier’s chill frame, and Jaskier arches into him in relief. “There was heavy snowfall from the east last night, that’s why it’s so cold in here this morning. Didn’t mean to leave you in it, just wanted to get this ready.”

“This is—” Jaskier shakes his head. 

“The others are insulating and digging out supplies today,” Geralt says. His palm slips under Jaskier’s chemise, warm and heavy on his hip. “We’ve got most of the day to ourselves.”

“And we—ah!—we shouldn’t be going to help?” Jaskier presses closer, his hands going about Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt blushes, so faintly Jaskier wouldn’t’ve noticed if he didn’t know him so well.

“No. I...may have taken on several sets of chores as a trade for the day with you,” Geralt admits. He cards his fingers through Jaskier’s curls, just as he knows he likes, and Jaskier can hardly remember waking up cold. He could melt.

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier breathes. Even in his wildest fantasies through the years on the Path, no. He’d never imagined it could be  _ this  _ good. “I’ll help you with them.”

“You won’t,” Geralt says, furrowing his brow. “That defeats the point. I chose this.” 

“And I choose to spend more time with you. Even if it is elbow-deep in dishwater.” 

Geralt’s mouth tugs up at the corner. 

“You do look good in dishwater,” he murmurs. His voice is practically a purr like this, a soft rumble that Jaskier feels in his own chest. “Look good in everything. And nothing, too.” He buries his face in Jaskier’s throat, and Jaskier groans. Geralt has such a soft, careful mouth, and he always moves with so much more tenderness than Jaskier ever envisioned. 

“No idea how I ever let you  _ out  _ of this bed, honestly.”

“Let me?” Geralt pulls back to crook a brow. Jaskier just smiles at him innocently, and that’s all it takes for Geralt to relent. “Yeah. All right.”

Jaskier bites his lip in a grin, and tugs Geralt back down.

“So, my dear, you have gone to the trouble of not only preparing my very favorite breakfast, but also securing us an entire morning together,  _ and  _ ensuring said breakfast doesn’t go cold over the course of the meantime.” Jaskier manages this last bit rather breathlessly, as Geralt’s hands are on his hips, now. “What might you have in mind, for that meantime?”

“I stole every bit of this morning from the world for  _ you,”  _ Geralt’s breath is hot on Jaskier’s throat. “Why don’t you tell me what you’d like?”

“Mm,” Jaskier says, in mock-thought. He’s smiling again, as he so often is in this life they share now. “I would, husband. But you already know.” He presses his thigh between Geralt’s legs. Geralt makes a lovely, desperate sound and bears down on him, his snow-white hair streaming on either side of Jaskier’s face, framing them together.

“Fuck,” Geralt rasps, shaking his head. “Jaskier. I love you.”

And Jaskier knows, he knows it as well as he knows his own name and he hears it near as often now. He’s known it since their wedding day and he knew it long, long before, but still, every single time Geralt says it, it’s like their story cracks open anew. The darkness of the world cast aside to make way for some wild, spectacular hope. 

“I love you,” Jaskier tells him, kisses it into his mouth, into the scratch of his cheek, the scars on his throat. “I love you, oh, Geralt. I love you.”

They move together, the thrill between them only heightened by familiarity, every touch and shift borne out of the comfort they get to share, and it still feels so fresh every time. The ways they can come together feel infinite.

“Can I get my mouth on you?” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier moans his assent.

“Please, darling,” he says, his voice hoarse, and Geralt moves down his body, shoving his clothes off and away as he goes. Jaskier shivers in the sudden chill of his absence, but Geralt pulls the blankets over his head, back over Jaskier’s chest, and Jaskier laughs. “I can’t see you.”

“You know what I look like.”

_ “Geralt.” _

“You don’t want to freeze, but you want my mouth,” Geralt points out. Jaskier feels him settle between his thighs, his husband’s breath ghosting across his erection, and he grins at the ceiling. “Don’t you?”

Jaskier heaves a sigh.

“Oh, very well, I shall have to simply look at you later. Give me that wicked mouth of yours, go on, love, I— _ oh!” _

Geralt takes him steady and deliberate, and to the hilt. His head bobs beneath the blanket, and Jaskier would giggle at how ridiculously  _ cute  _ it is, if he wasn’t busy going utterly boneless as Geralt presses his tongue hot against him. Oh, his husband knows _ very  _ much what he likes, sucking the head of Jaskier’s cock between those pretty lips, rubbing that strong tongue of his over Jaskier’s shaft again and again. Jaskier does love to watch him as he does, knows that beneath the blankets Geralt’s eyes are fluttered shut in bliss, his cheeks hollowed, spit and precome dripping down his chin and over Jaskier’s thighs, but he’s warm, and cared for, and it’s so, so good.

Presently, Geralt’s knuckle brushes beneath, and Jaskier grins, arching a breathy  _ yes,  _ and then he’s being gently turned over. 

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier murmurs, burying his face in Geralt’s pillow, “oh Geralt, fuck,  _ please—” _

Geralt kisses the cheeks of his arse, palming his thighs, the curve of his back, and then he spreads Jaskier and opens his mouth against him, and Jaskier  _ keens. _

“Ah! Oh fuck, oh  _ fuck,  _ that’s  _ good,  _ that’s— _ Geralt!” _

“Mm,” Geralt hums, hums it fucking  _ into  _ him. “Love it when you say my name like that.” He teases Jaskier’s hole with the tip of his tongue, just tracing, circling, for a torturous while. Jaskier’s knuckles go white as he’s frozen to the pillow, and then Geralt spreads him and works his tongue  _ deep  _ inside, and Jaskier sobs.

And all he can say is Geralt’s name, again and again, his voice reaching registers he’s sure the rest of the keep can hear, but he can’t help it and Geralt doesn’t stop him, fucking Jaskier open deep and slow, curling his tongue obscenely.

It’s not long before Jaskier shifts, and Geralt senses his need, sliding up Jaskier’s body. He reaches for the oil and then he’s got two fingers inside, the hot, strong shape of his body pinning Jaskier deliciously to the bed. Jaskier’s nearly wild with pleasure, bucking back against him, rutting his cock frantic against the mattress. 

Geralt kisses his throat, petting those long fingers inside. He rubs exactly where he knows makes Jaskier see stars, grinding his own gorgeous erection against Jaskier’s thigh. 

“Tell me when,” he murmurs, and Jaskier gives a broken moan.

“Now,  _ now _ , but—”

“Hmm?”

“I want to look at you, please—”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, and Jaskier knows he likes that. 

“Let me— _ fuck—” _ Jaskier gasps, as Geralt withdraws his fingers, “let me look at my lovely husband, while he takes me the  _ fuck  _ apart, all right?”

Geralt moves the pillows so he can sit against the headboard. He strokes a good deal of oil onto his cock, and pulls Jaskier onto his lap.

“All right,” he says, and it’s something close to a purr again. “It’s not too cold for you, like this?”

Jaskier faintly remembers the chill against his back, but he’s sweaty and flushed now, and Geralt’s so fucking hot beneath him.

“No,” he says, lining himself up, “no, and it won’t be, as long as you keep me warm _ —ahh!” _

Jaskier’s head falls back as Geralt rises into him, the pleasure surging through him immediate and intense. Geralt threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and tugs him forward again, into a kiss, his other hand steadying Jaskier’s hip, and then he starts to move, and Jaskier muffles a scream into the crook of Geralt’s shoulder. 

It’s so  _ much  _ like this, all his weight bearing him down on Geralt’s thick, spectacular cock, their bodies pressed together, Jaskier’s erection catching on the muscles of Geralt’s stomach on every thrust. They’re shallow thrusts, at this angle, but Geralt presses the head of his cock right against Jaskier’s prostate and  _ grinds,  _ and Jaskier’s breathing goes ragged before long. 

“Geralt,” he pants,  _ “Geralt, Geralt—” _

“That’s it, Jask,” Geralt says, and his voice is  _ soothing  _ somehow, even though it’s rough with sex, even though Jaskier can feel his cock throb, spilling precome inside him. “Take it. Take what you need from me.” Jaskier’s eyes roll back and he settles himself as low on Geralt’s lap as he can, his mouth falling open as his arse rests on Geralt’s thighs.

“So—so full—and so  _ deep—” _

“Yeah.” Geralt brushes his fingers behind Jaskier, feeling where they’re joined, where Jaskier’s stretched around him. “Fuck. You take me so good.”

Jaskier kisses him, no finesse to it. Just for the contact, just to pour as much love into Geralt as he can. His arms are slung around Geralt’s shoulders and he tangles them in that silver hair, squeezing Geralt’s thighs with his own. 

“I’m—I’m almost—I need—Geralt,  _ please,”  _ he manages, his breath hitching, and Geralt grins. He tips Jaskier back just enough to reach between them, and he wraps his hand around Jaskier and strokes, root to tip, again and again and again, and Jaskier bears down hard on Geralt’s cock and cries out. It’s a fucking  _ good  _ one, ecstasy wringing him out in waves, the pleasure spearing through his very spine, and he clenches tight around Geralt’s cock as he spills over them both, and he watches through lidded eyes as his husband goes slack with orgasm himself, pulsing deep and hot inside him.

It takes several breaths for Jaskier to come back to his senses, but when he does, he kisses Geralt over and over. Geralt huffs a little laugh, tugging Jaskier in for an embrace. 

Presently, Jaskier groans, shifting.

“Guess we’d better get cleaned up,” he sighs. It is  _ very  _ difficult to think about disentangling himself. Geralt holds him tighter.

“Mm,” he breathes, kissing Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’ve got enough errands to do, what’s one more? We’ve got fresh sheets in the cabinet, let’s just throw these in the laundry pile with the rest tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says, surprised and pleased. He wriggles, glancing down at them. “And what about—?”

Geralt chuckles.

“Hmm,” he says consideringly, rubbing his palms over Jaskier’s body, “How about I get a hot bath going, for both of us. I wash your hair, while you have your breakfast.” He dots a kiss on Jaskier’s nose. “What d’you say to that?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen.

“I say I wish it snowed like this more often! And,” he adds, smiling at his husband, “I say I  _ definitely _ married the right man.” 

Geralt snorts.

“Was that ever in question?” He means it as a joke, but they both know there’s a weight behind it. They also both know they shoulder it together, now, and Jaskier wouldn’t have it any other way, not when it worked out so blessedly well.

“Not in the very least,” Jaskier tells him, and kisses Geralt right in the middle of his smile. 

“I’m yours, you know,” Geralt murmurs, petting Jaskier’s sweaty hair, his touch impossibly tender. “Even on days we can’t spend in bed together. Entirely, completely yours.”

“I do know,” Jaskier says, and he means it. “But do feel free to remind me exactly like that, anytime.” 

“Deal.” 


	12. mittens make it hard to do things & winter solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the shortest day of the year, and they're busy with errands in the cold. 
> 
> Geralt asks a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T.

“Augh! I give up.” Jaskier drops the flint and goes to yank off his mittens, but Geralt seizes his wrist.

“No.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier pouts. His cheeks are bright pink. They often are, but it’s the solstice, the shortest day of the year and one of the coldest. Jaskier really has no business being out here, helping with the torches and errands, but he insisted. “I can’t  _ do  _ anything with these on! It’s  _ not _ fair you all get cool leather gloves and I’m stuck with—” he breaks off as Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“I made you these,” he says mildly. “They’re warmer than the gloves. You said you liked them.”

Jaskier groans.

“I  _ do  _ like them, in that they are soft and cute and I look nice in them, and you are the sweetest, most wonderful lover in all of the Continent to make them for me.” He shakes his hand, which is still in Geralt’s grasp. “But that doesn’t mean I can be of any  _ use  _ while I’m wearing them. I want to help!”

Geralt takes both of Jaskier’s mittened hands in his and brings them to his mouth, breathing hot air on them and rubbing. 

“You can help by not losing a finger trying to do errands for the solstice,” he says. He gives Jaskier’s hands one last squeeze and then sets the torch alight himself. 

“But—”

“I need those fingers,” Geralt tells him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I am very fond of them.”

Jaskier blushes, even through his frozen cheeks. Over by the firewood, Lambert groans audibly, thwacking his axe harder than strictly necessary.

“Yes, well. I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

“Hmm.” Geralt returns to the torches, and Jaskier sighs, shuffling along through the snow after him. “Just a few more, and we’ll bring the next batch of firewood inside.”

“Okay. Ooh!” Jaskier claps his mittened hands together, a sweep of bright sapphire against the dusty gold sunset light, there in the snow. Geralt had considered a dark pink when he was making them, but ultimately decided the blue would bring out Jaskier’s eyes best. They do. “We’ll  _ also  _ take a break for mulled wine.”

Geralt arches a brow.

“You’re that cold?”

“No, it’s just very good mulled wine!” 

Geralt chuckles. The last torch lit, he heads for the firewood. Lambert’s wrapped up and headed inside by now, stacked neat bundles for them to bring in in turns. 

“You made it,” he points out. “But it is. Let’s just get these in and we can call it for the night.” He hoists four bundles, and turns to see Jaskier with three, cradled in his arms, and he stops in his tracks.

The sun’s sunk to the horizon. The mountains are awash in pink and gold, and the night will be full of stars and comfort. Jaskier’s here, in the mittens Geralt made for him, the lines of his body easy, even with his arms full. He’s at ease, here. At home, at last, not just at Kaer Morhen, but with Geralt, openly and earnestly. Geralt knows, because he is at home too.

“You gonna just stare all night or what?” Jaskier shifts, yawning broadly. “We’re doing a roast tonight, right? I’m starving, I could eat an entire—”

“Marry me.”

Geralt can hear Jaskier’s pulse pitch. Those beautiful eyes go very bright, and Jaskier’s breath comes quick. Geralt is  _ pretty  _ sure it’s a good thing in his context, but suddenly he second-guesses himself for the first time in a long time—

“Oh—shit. Did you want something more romantic? I just couldn’t help myself, I probably should have planned an entire—”

_ “Geralt.”  _ Jaskier drops the firewood. He rushes to Geralt, stopping just short of crashing into his arms. He looks Geralt in the eye, they’re so evenly  _ matched,  _ the way they line up, each filling in the cracks of the other. “Do you,” he says, breathless, “do you mean it? You really mean it?”

“You know the answer to that,” Geralt says softly, and Jaskier gasps a hysterical little laugh, clapping his mittened hands over his mouth. “I have never,” Geralt says honestly, “been more sure of anything in my life.”

“Say it again,” Jaskier says, his voice cracking. “It was  _ perfect,  _ darling, but I just—I want to savor this, is that okay?” 

“Of course it’s okay. I’m sorry that I, er. Sprung it on you.”

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ apologize for anything about this, witcher.”

“Oh, sorry.” Geralt flinches. “Ah, fuck.” Jaskier laughs again, high and wild. His mittened hand comes up to cup Geralt’s cheek, and it’s ridiculous, and wonderful. “Jaskier,” Geralt says. “I love you. And I never thought I could ever have anything as good as what I have with you. Never used to think about labels, ‘cause that felt so far out of the realm of possibility. But now...I’d like to be your husband. Very much. If you’ll have me.” He swallows. He’s smiling, he knows, that fond, indulgent smile it took so long to recognize upon himself. The smile that’s Jaskier’s, and Jaskier’s alone. “But it’s your choice, of course. Shouldn’t have just—I should have asked. Asking now. So...will you marry me?”

Jaskier mouths the word  _ husband  _ soundlessly, perhaps without realizing, and Geralt’s heart sings in his chest.

“You are my choice,” Jaskier says, gentle and sure, and, well. That’s not something Geralt had ever heard, before Jaskier, and his own eyes have gone rather hot at the corners. “Every single day. I only want you more and more, and more.”

“Is that...does that mean…”

_ “Yes,” _ Jaskier says, and then their arms are around each other, and Jaskier’s kissing him hard. Geralt lifts him into the air and he wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist, laughing and trembling into the kiss. “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you,  _ husband.” _

The sun’s sunk now, the winter chill spreading through their furs, but Jaskier’s words seep through Geralt’s veins like the sweetest heat, like a balm, like a healing thing. 

“Say it again,” it’s Geralt’s turn to murmur, hoarse. Jaskier grins helplessly against his mouth.

“Husband,” he whispers,  _ “My  _ husband.”

“Husband,” Geralt says, holding him tight. “Yours.  _ Fuck,  _ yes.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier goes to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair, but the mitten just bumps into it instead, and Jaskier blushes. “Ah, fucking gods.”

Geralt laughs. And laughs, and laughs, tilting his forehead against Jaskier’s, and then they both are. They hold each other, swaying, murmuring gentle promises. Snowflakes start, floating through the night, catching prettily in Jaskier’s eyelashes. 

“Take me inside,” Jaskier says throatily. “I’ve got things I’d like to do to you I need these damned mittens off for.”

“Okay,” Geralt says at once, and then remembers. Jaskier remembers at the same time.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “the firewood.” They both glance down, only to find it’s... _ gone.  _

“The fuck?” Geralt frowns, lowering Jaskier to the ground at last.

“Oh, the wood?” calls a familiar voice from the second floor window. They look up to see Lambert, Eskel, and Ciri poking their heads out. “Came up for breath, did you? Yeah, we finished all the chores while you were busy in each other’s faces. You didn’t even notice.”

“Shit,” Geralt blinks. “I...really didn’t.”

“Sorry!” Jaskier calls up, half-chastised. “We’ll make it up to you!”

“Oh, you will, bard,” Lambert assures him. “Looks like you’ll have plenty of time to do it, as my idiot brother figured out he shouldn’t be letting you go anytime soon.”

“Congratulations!” Eskel shouts.

“Took you long enough!” Ciri yells, and Geralt, to his horror, feels his  _ own  _ cheeks warming. “Take your time! We’ll keep dinner warm!” 

“I didn’t agree to that!” Lambert says, aghast. They’re pulling back from the window, voices fading as they move back to the kitchen. “Where’s the rule written that you get to skive off responsibilities just for romancing a bard?”

Geralt laughs softly, shaking his head. 

“He’s just jealous.”

“He should be!” Jaskier’s hand sets on Geralt’s waist again. “I am quite a catch.”

“You are,” Geralt murmurs. “Very lucky I’ve caught you.” Jaskier’s eyes sparkle, and he nuzzles his nose into Geralt’s cheek.

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it, love. I chose you, from the start.”

And Geralt feels the echo of the hard, frozen ache that still lingered inside his heart, thaw to nothing but warm, bright love.

“I am,” he says gruffly, “ _ very  _ grateful you did.” He kisses Jaskier, hoping he can feel the overflow of love and affection spilling within, and Jaskier moans softly and Geralt knows he does. “You’re my choice, too. I choose this life, with you at the center of it. Every day.”

They do, presently, join the others for dinner. There’s lots of congratulations to go around, and it should be embarrassing, it should be silly, but it’s not, it’s actually very beautiful instead. Jaskier takes off his mittens at last, and takes Geralt’s hand in his warm one, and Geralt doesn’t let go of it until Jaskier gently asks for it back, so he can eat. 

The days grow longer, from here on out. Every morning dawns brighter, with the sun, and the sunshine of Jaskier, beside him always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's all, at least for now! thank you so, so much for reading these winter ficlets <3 I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [welcomemysentence](https://welcomemysentence.tumblr.com/)


End file.
